New Perspective 2 : TAKEN ON TRUST
by Bellegeste
Summary: Sequel to THE CHOSEN. Snape, living as an outlaw, uses Hermione as his gobetween to contact Harry. Can he trust her? Can she trust him? Can Ron trust anybody? Post HBP pre DH. Action, angst, wit, wordplay, humour, emotion, hc and ultimately SSHG.
1. Deeply Disillusioned

New Perspective 2

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: All canon characters are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended etc.**

**A/N: This is the long-awaited (I hope!) sequel to THE CHOSEN. It begins about a week after Hermione and Neville have left Snape at Spinner's End i.e. it is mid-August, during the summer holidays which follow the close of HBP. It develops into an SSHG story, more 'relationship' than romance…**

**Rated T for very, _very_ occasional use of strong language.**

**Warm thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their helpful comments and encouragement at first draft stage.**

**So… at the end of THE CHOSEN, Snape was living as an outlaw, working for Voldemort. Neville and Hermione had tracked him to his hideout and supplied him with the necessary antidote for his injury. Persuaded that he is not the cold blooded murderer the rest of the wizarding world believes him to be, they promise to try to help clear his name. One of Snape's little tasks for Voldemort has been to disrupt wizard communications by sabotaging the owl service…**

**Chapter 1: DEEPLY DISILLUSIONED**

The proof lay in her hand. Not that she needed to prove anything to anybody – not today, not now, not yet – but it was reassuring all the same. _He_ had been here. Severus Snape had been_ here_, talking to _her_, only moments ago. And now he'd gone. Disapparated. Disappeared. No one would believe her if she told them. She wasn't planning to tell anyone.

Hermione's fingers clamped around the small container, rubbing the ridged contours of the glass, feeling the flattened, solid, fez shape of the stopper. The phial was no bigger than a lipstick.

Her eyes probed the unseasonal darkness. As though, if she stared hard enough, intently enough, if she focussed her will, concentrated her energies, she might penetrate the night, might detect a trace of his departure, follow his route, track him through an infinity of Ds – dissimulation, deception, doubt, duty, danger – to his destination.

She had _not_ imagined it. More evidence was tucked in her pocket: a folded square of parchment, sealed and secret. He had slipped it to her just seconds before he left. A note, a scrap of paper - the mere possession of it branded her as a go-between, an accomplice, possibly a traitor. What? Why? Where? There had been no time for questions. She should have asked… She'd wanted to know… If only she'd…

"Hermione!" Her father's voice: indulgent, tolerant, querulous undertones. The voice of a man whose patience has its limits. "What's going on out there?"

"Coming!" she called, palming the phial with the dexterity of a street conjuror, thrusting it to join the incriminating message. "I was just letting Crookshanks out."

"Well, tell Mr Moggie Magic to make up his mind. Either he stops in or he goes out - no dithering on the doorstep sniffing the breeze. I don't pay the gas bill to heat the birds. Come in and close the door, there's a good girl."

"Just a minute -"

XXX

…She had been holding the front door ajar, waiting while Crookshanks, nose aloft, whiskers erect, tail twitching in anticipation, paused on the threshold, assessing the night, scenting the familiar, the unexpected, scanning the air for signals, baring his teeth to taste the lingering smells of the day – cooling earth, fallen leaves, the tantalising hint of human footprints on the path, the rank trail of a hedgehog which had snuffled along the border some hours before, the car-tyres with their strange and alluring cocktails of enemy territory… Unhurried, cautious, thorough in his appraisal, the cat cased the garden, plotting his nocturnal patrol.

"Oh, get a move on, Crooks," Hermione had muttered, giving the woolly behind a gentle nudge with her slipper. "You're like a wet week."

Progressing onto the path, the cat trotted forwards, then stopped, taking stock one last time before the final moment of decision, when he would either scoot back indoors or slink off to melt into the anonymity of the shadows. All cats are grey in the dark. In the wedge of warm light thrown by the door Crookshanks was still ginger. Suddenly his tufted ears went back, the thick fur bristled. Hermione glanced towards the road, suspecting a dog.

"Carelessness, Miss Granger, costs lives." The low whisper hissed directly in her right ear.

Alarm reared through her nerves sending her heart tantivy, racing into a gallop. But her startled gasp died in her throat, reined in somewhere above the larynx by the choke of familiarity. She didn't need to look behind her; she recognised the voice.

"Professor!"

"You should trust the animal's senses. They're sharper than yours will ever be."

_And manners cost nothing_, she thought belatedly, the moment for a quick-fire retort already long gone. Annoyance displaced shock. Who was he to sneak up and ambush her in her own front garden, and then have the gall to lecture her on the perceptive instincts of cats? She knew perfectly well that felines could detect high frequencies, even into the ultrasonic range, hearing at least two octaves higher than humans. A Kneazle's sensory range was still more acute. In her own ears the blood was rushing.

"Well excuse me if I don't go on red alert every time I let the cat out for a walk!"

Keenly aware now of Snape's proximity, the hairs on the back of her neck tingling, she felt vulnerable and at a disadvantage. He had caught her off guard. For goodness' sake, she was wearing fluffy slippers! Would she ever live that one down? How had he got so close? The sweep of his cloak was brushing the back of her calves. Hermione twisted round to confront him.

There was no one there. Whirling round in a full 360˚ pivot she scoured the darkness, straining to the utmost limits of her vision, before turning back to the empty doorway with a snort. Magic out of context – it still took her by surprise. It was worrying, when she was at her parents' home - _her_ home - how quickly she got out of the habit. She kicked herself for not recognising it at once, for not expecting it.

"You're Deeply Disillusioned!" He would be all but invisible, even to wizards.

Disconcerting as it was to be talking to thin air, Hermione acknowledged it was a sensible precaution. But – she shuddered – did that mean that at any time there might be Unseeables lurking in the undergrowth, spying on her, following her, monitoring her every move? Spooky thought! Her eyes roved anxiously through the gloom, furtive and fearful. In the Illogicality Lobe of her brain a gleeful doubt demon was taunting her: _Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean They're not out to get you… _It was like having her own personal Peeves, but less original. _Stop it!_ She checked herself. _Stop it! Snape's here – what could possibly happen? _What indeed.Theoretical trust was one thing; it was wholly another to be alone in the dark with a self-confessed murderer.

Snape would be observing her fright with, she guessed, cringing at the prospect, that patronising sneer which infuriated her so much. Hermione shut her eyes, inhaled and slowly counted herself back to rationality.

"Sir?"

For want of a more definite point of reference, Hermione fixed her attention on one of the ornamental bay trees which flanked the porch. Trained into gnarled spirals, the evergreens in their terracotta pots stood nearly five feet tall. A poor substitute for Snape. Her initial panic subsiding, the girl felt cheated – she wanted to see his face. Not that making eye-contact would have left her any the wiser. Windows of the soul? More like one-way mirrors.

"Why are you here? What do you want? You can't come here! What about my parents? What if -"

"Quiet!" The shadows shivered and for an instant Hermione had the unnerving impression that the wall and potted shrubs were shifting, as though someone had breathed life into a trompe-l'oeil mural. There was nothing on which to focus.

"I have not been followed. Don't concern yourself on that score."

His voice, stronger and less hoarse than the last time she had heard it, sounded close by. Hermione caught the smell of his breath, a sour blend of black coffee, alcohol and late nights, and she turned towards it, resisting the impulse to reach out, to clutch at the void, to trawl for something tangible. Would it be like grabbing a ghost, swiping at the insubstantial, or would she end up with her arms wrapped round an all too substantial Professor Snape? She shook the idea from her mind.

"I'll get straight to the point, Miss Granger." Businesslike as ever. He addressed her quickly, quietly, bending nearer as he spoke more softly – or so it felt – his words audible to her alone. "Listen. That evening at Spinner's End… You led me to believe -" A firm and very real grip on her shoulders pulled her round a quarter turn, steadied her as she shuffled her feet to keep up with her torso, held her at arm's length. Lifting her gaze Hermione realised she must be looking straight at him and that he, in all probability, was staring into her eyes.

Let him search. Legilimency would tell him nothing he didn't already know. This wasn't a case of prying and plunder; he wouldn't be pillaging her intimate thoughts. She trusted him that far. It wasn't her petty privacies that interested him, but whether or not she would be of use. If he wanted to reassure himself about her sincerity then the memories of that day were readily accessible, front of mind. For the past week they had stubbornly stalked her waking hours. Whatever tenuous link had been forged back there in that seedy sitting room, she had scrutinised it from every angle, tugged at it every which way, but it had neither buckled nor broken. Snape would read uncertainty there, hesitancy, but no intent to deceive. Her outrage at Dumbledore's death had been redirected, her suspicions about Snape's role in the murder allayed. If her trust was not wholly unconditional, he could see that too – and take it or leave it. His choice. Doubts? Of course she still had some doubts – she'd be a fool if she didn't. A total change of heart, a profession of unquestioning faith would have been patently false and shallow; neither would have deserved or won his respect.

"You offered…" He sounded reluctant to raise the subject. Hermione could picture only too well his expression of distaste, the taut-lipped scowl as he took her up on that offer of help. It ran counter to his every instinct and inclination, but what was the alternative? Who else could he turn to? Neville? "I need to know… …if I can count on you."

"Judge for yourself." Brown eyes opened deliberately, exaggeratedly wide. She wasn't going to pretend she hadn't guessed what he was up to.

The unseen hands dropped from her shoulders. Hermione instantly regretted the loss of contact, missing the weight and warmth, the fix on his position.

"It's no joking matter. If you're going to be flippant…" Anger flared at the first strike. The smooth voice strained with an urgency Hermione had not, in her earlier confusion, fully registered. Rebuked, she couldn't have felt more embarrassed if she'd puckered her lips and winked. Of course he wouldn't have come unless it were important.

"I'm sorry Sir. It's just… it's very _weird_, not being able to see you."

"I would have thought you'd be used to it - the number of outings Potter has given that cloak of his," he sniped back.

This was not the time to get sucked into an argument.

"What - what do you want me to do?" she asked, in some trepidation.

"Have you been in touch with Potter? Recently? At all?" Snape demanded abruptly. The question came from a couple of feet away, to her left. She had heard no footsteps on the path; the man moved as quietly as a Patronus.

"With Harry? No, Sir." There had been no word from him - or Ron - since the end of term. For the first couple of weeks of the holiday, Hermione had generously given them the benefit of the doubt, blaming their silence on the disruption to the Owl service. Now even that excuse was wearing thin. "He may have spoken to Ron. They were talking about taking their Apparition test together over the summer… Sir?"

For a moment she thought he had left. For another wild moment she was convinced she'd been dreaming, wandering about the deserted front garden muttering to herself, hearing voices, like a mental patient. If anyone challenged her she'd have to say she was rehearsing a school play. Listening hard she froze, testing the air for any trace of his breath, willing a sixth sense to pick up on his presence. Like someone who has lost a contact lens, she was loath to move for fear of trampling on it – or, in her case, clumsily bumping into him. Then a glimmer of inky magic wavered in the darkness, and she found herself holding a piece of rough parchment. Snape's instructions were succinct.

"It is an urgent message for Potter. Check if he's at The Burrow. If he's not there you must send a Weasley owl."

"But -" 

"I see. 'The road to hell…1', Miss Granger. If you are not prepared to get involved, you will say so now, and stop wasting my time."

"It's not that, Sir. It's just that it'll be a bit awkward. The thing is -"

"If you expect any of this to be _easy_, you can forget it!" The tinderbox sparked again. This time she heard the suck of air, drawn up through flaring nostrils as he took a deep breath, releasing it in a long, controlled exhalation, forcing himself to be calm.

Hermione hurried to explain.

"Things are a bit iffy between me and Ron, Sir. He's rather given up on me."

An unspoken expletive spluttered in the damp air.

"Then it is time, Miss Granger," Snape said coldly, "to bury the hatchet – ideally not in Weasley's thick skull, though that notion has its merits. If Weasley is our one point of contact with Potter you must put aside your personal differences. Can you do that?"

"I think so, Sir."_ Like you did with Sirius…_

"Things may appear bleak at present, but you will persuade him **not** to give up. None of us can give up. _Dum spiro spero_.2"

The Borometz had done a good job, Hermione reflected. She'd have to tell Neville; he'd be pleased.

"And you will get that note to Potter."

"Couldn't you send Harry an owl? The problem is -"

"I cannot afford to be connected with that boy _in any way_," he interrupted, his tone as tightly clipped as the box hedge.

Hermione had been going to object that Errol and Pigwidgeon were no more capable of delivering a message than any other owl in the country – thanks to his sabotaging the eco-system.

"If you value your friend's life, you will cooperate."

Not as a favour to him, Snape, but for Harry's sake. Hermione knew she was being manipulated; she hadn't yet decided whether or not she minded. It was all too much to take in. But wasn't this what she had wanted – to help Snape help Harry? And to clear Snape's name – not that she'd made much progress on that score.

Now he was standing in front of her again - she sensed a change in the density of the darkness. Despite herself, she took a faltering step backwards onto the lawn. Even invisible he had the power to loom, to tower, to intimidate.

"You will require this antidote. Use it sparingly. I haven't time to brew any more." A tiny bottle was pushed into her hand.

"But -" she remonstrated again, her mind a thicket of thorny questions that snagged at her understanding. She needed more details. Was Harry in danger? _More_ danger than usual? Was this letter a warning or a threat? Information? An invitation? An ultimatum?

"But -" She hated herself for standing there but-butting like a faulty two-stroke engine.

"Do I need to define the word 'urgent', Miss Granger?" Disembodied impatience. Hermione jumped to attention.

"No. No Sir. I'll go tonight, er, as soon as I can, er, now, straight away."

"See that you do."

And he was gone. Without a goodbye or a good luck or a thank you. Leaving a million queries unasked and unanswered. Why was it so vital for him to contact Harry? Couldn't he have used a Death Eater owl? He could have Obliviated it, killed it if he had to, if the risk was so great. Why had he left so suddenly? Would he be coming back? She hadn't had a chance to quiz him about Voldemort or Draco or Narcissa, or… She hadn't even asked Snape if he was better, if he was all right.

One minute he'd been there – somewhere – and the next… Hermione had sensed rather than seen the haze of movement on the path, a momentary blurring of outlines, a fluctuation in focus, an oily shimmer in the blackness at the end of the driveway; she had heard the shiny soap-bubble 'pop'. He had gone. He had Apparated into the darkness, leaving only a smooth circle of absence that rippled behind him, breaking the surface tension of the night.

**End of chapter**.

**A/N: I know the World Cup is on TV, but if you can find time to leave a review I'll be very grateful. Thanks in advance.**

1 'The road to hell is paved with good intentions'.

2 Dum spiro spero - Where there's life there's hope.


	2. No Leads, No Clues

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters are the property of JKR and her publishers etc.**

**A/N: Many thanks for the reviews, both from familiar names (it's good to know you're still out there) and new ones. I'll try to reply individually if I can. I really do appreciate your comments and suggestions.**

**Special thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their input at first draft stage.**

**The story so far… Snape has contacted Hermione with an urgent message for Harry…**

**Chapter 2:NO LEADS, NO CLUES**

"I've told you, **I don't know** the password," insisted Hermione for the third time. Those twins could be so _juvenile_. "Come on, guys, it's me, Hermione. Let me in. It's cold out here." The door to The Burrow remained obstinately closed. "I'm sorry it's so late, but - well, just let me in, will you, and I'll explain."

Even though it was past eleven o'clock, The Burrow was ablaze with light. The beams spilling from the downstairs windows had proved rather useful to Hermione as she picked her way to the back door, across the yard, which appeared more than usually strewn with broken, old and rusting bits of junk. At least she didn't have to clamber over the normal heap of muddy Wellington boots; the Weasleys must have had a tidy up, she thought, as she finally reached the mat and scraper. She wiped a smear of chicken shit from her shoe. The boots were, for a change, arranged in a neat line along the wall, floating suspended upside-down just below the eaves. They reminded Hermione of a terraced row of black rubber bird-boxes. How long would it be before some enterprising robin or tom-tit discovered the benefits of a waterproof nesting-boot? _Wouldn't fancy living in Ron's boot_, she reflected, remembering the disgusting state of his socks after Quidditch practice.

Muffled muttering alerted her to some kind of confab going on inside. A new voice had joined the discussion. Sanity at last!

"Ginny!" called Hermione in relief. "Tell those two jokers to open the door. They've made their point, whatever it is."

More muttering.

"We have to ask you a question," stated Ginny, not sounding very hospitable. _Oh for heaven's sake! Wasn't this taking security to ridiculous extremes? _The precise nature of the question was causing them some trouble. Hermione heard muted 'Noes', 'Maybes', 'Not that' and even a prim 'Ask her yourself!'.

Waiting on the doorstep, Hermione shifted her feet and rubbed her hands together, blowing onto her fingers. For an August evening it was surprisingly chilly. The weather had been terrible all summer. No one, not even the Met Office, seemed to know if they should blame Dementors, weather magic, global warming (cooling?), cracks in the ozone layer or just the unpredictable, unappealing British climate.

A grunt and a low, interrogative rumble… She inferred that Ron too had joined the debate.

"Ron! I need to talk to you," Hermione called, more urgently.

What would Snape say – or do – if she returned without sending the note, having failed to cross her friend's threshold?

Sniggers and whining, Ron-ish protestation.

"Ronnikins would like to know how many times you snogged McLa-gghhmph." Fred's (George's?) question ended in a gurgle suggestive of a Langlock hex or headlock.

Arms folded, Hermione drummed her fingers, exasperation already on the horizon and approaching fast. She had had quite enough for one day of talking to people she couldn't see.

"Alright, bonehead, I'll ask." Ron cleared his throat. "Let me think. Um. Right then. Hermione? In what year did the Canons last win the league? What? What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, come off it, Ron. Like Hermione's going to know _anything_ about Quidditch! Anyway, it's supposed to be something only she knows -"

"And us," chipped in George-Fred.

"**And** us," continued Ginny. "I was getting to that, if only you'd let me finish. One of us, at least. Otherwise how do we know if she's telling the truth?"

Further murmurs. By this time, Hermione had her ear pressed to the door. At last they came to an agreement. Through the thickness of the wood, her friend's voice sounded humourless and grave.

"Hermione, this is Ginny. Ron says to ask about the hair that caused trouble in the bathroom."

_What?_ Her hair was always troublesome, especially in the mornings, or if she dried it too quickly. What sort of a stupid question was that?

"In your _second_ year, with Ron and Harry," Ginny prompted.

Oh! _That_ hair.

"It was cat hair. It came from Millicent Bulstrode's cardigan," she answered readily, keen to get this charade over with. The phial and Snape's message in her pocket were getting heavier by the minute, dragging her down; she felt lopsided with the weight of responsibility. Would Ron believe that she had been overcome by a fit of remorse, that she had needed to see him so badly it wouldn't wait until the morning? Why wouldn't he? Last year he'd swallowed the undignified drivel Lavender had drizzled over him like a net of sickly, sticky sugar strands. Won-Won. Ugh!

"Well, thanks a lot. Finally!" she said as the door swung back to admit her. "These new security directives are getting beyond a joke, but I suppose it's good to see that somebody's following Ministry guidelines. We all should, really – they're for our own good, after all. I mean, Ron, if Draco had tried a few sneaky questions when you were 'juiced up as Crabbe, you'd have been rumbled, wouldn't you? Anyway… I'm glad you weren't all asleep – at least I haven't woken you up. This is a little embarrassing, but -"

Nerves were making her gabble. Hermione stopped. This wasn't the reception she had expected at all. The four Weasleys – Fred, George, Ron and Ginny – were staring at her sullenly. Ron, she noted, was hanging back, and the twins had their arms behind them - it looked suspiciously as though their wands might be drawn. Ginny was the first to offer any sort of a greeting.

"Have you any news?" the girl asked breathlessly.

News? In silence Hermione's gaze panned round her friends, taking in the pale, distraught faces, Ginny's tangled, uncombed hair and tear-stained cheeks. What had happened? There was no sign of Fleur or Bill. Could it be Full Moon again already? Had Bill transformed this time? Had he escaped?

"It was good of you to come. Sorry about all that with the -" Ginny made a limp gesture towards the door. "Dad said not to take any chances." Her voice quavered. She pressed her lips together and turned away.

"I came as soon as I could," the elder girl spoke truthfully. _Keep lies to a minimum. _"But I don't know all the details…" She was fishing. Rather than blurt out that she had no idea what was going on, she would try to glean more information before committing herself. After all, it –whatever 'it' was – had worked in her favour so far (apart from keeping her hanging on the doorstep for half an hour): they hadn't seemed surprised at her late arrival.

"It's our fault!" the twins exclaimed simultaneously.

Had the Ministry caught up with them at last? It had only been a matter of time before Weasley's Wizard Wheezes crossed the marginal line between the inspirational and the illegal. Had they traced Draco's supply of Instant Darkness Powder to its source? Maybe their stock of Shielding Charms and devices had come to the attention of Arthur's department. Perhaps he had been forced to resign. He'd have a tough time defending his position in the Office for the Detection of Counterfeit Defensive Spells when his sons were some of the primary offenders. Still, he'd done it before: how he'd ever managed to explain away that flying car was beyond Hermione. It was such a blatant infringement, and again one which had directly undermined his role at work. Sometimes she thought the twins did it deliberately to spite him.

"It was the tutu that did it," said George, shaking his head.

"And the gold paint," added Fred.

"Where's Bill?" Hermione demanded, calling a halt to this surreal confession before it went any further. She needed to dispel the grotesque image of a partially transformed, gilded Bill hairily prancing about The Burrow in one of Fleur's skimpy ballet dresses.

"He's out looking," Ron replied in a flattened tone. "So's Dad. Even Percy's going to try to pull a few strings with Scrimgeour, 'initiate procedures', that sort of thing. For all the good it'll do."

"It was funny at the time," went on the twins, ignoring the interruption. "But the gnome didn't think so. No sense of humour; no festive spirit. Took it quite the wrong way. Been making her life hell for months – nothing major, I mean what harm can those little guys really do?"

"Peeing on the parsley patch…" 

"Letting the hens out; dropping eggs in our Wellies…"

"Tugging the washing off the line…"

(Mrs Weasley always maintained that Drying Charms never gave you the same freshness as hanging the laundry outside in the open air to 'get a good blow.')

"Creeping into the house, putting worms in the bread bin…"

Aggravation by insult the story unfolded. Humiliated by his experience as the Not So Laughing Christmas Tree Gnome1, the disgruntled creature had spent the last eight months wreaking a small but systematic revenge on the Weasley family. The previous morning, discovering a batch of freshly laundered sheets trampled down into the mud and criss-crossed with trails of dirty, gnome-sized footprints, Molly Weasley had reached flashpoint.

"We laid traps for him all round the yard, but Mum said that wasn't good enough. She went mental. She wanted to be shot of the pest once and for all. So she Flooed to Diagon Alley to order a Jarvey…"

"She never came back," whispered Ginny.

x x x

They sat round the table in the cramped kitchen, nursing mugs of unwanted, therapeutic tea, saying very little. Twenty-four hours of uncertainty had worn down the sharp edges of their first jagged, angry impulses. The immediate, urgent need to react – to take action, to investigate, retaliate, todo_ something_ – had seen them through the early, anxious hours. Wheels had been set in motion; the Aurors had been notified, the Order alerted, friends had been Flooed, hospital admissions checked. Unanswerable 'whys' had grown hollow with repetition; the threadbare carpet testified to miles of agitated pacing. There was nothing now to do but wait.

To Hermione the individual Weasleys had always seemed like parts of a larger unit - the Weasley family, a sprawling, wayward, organic octopus of a creature whose eight uncoordinated limbs were linked and driven by one central source of energy: the indomitable Mrs Weasley. Now, as they sat subdued and dulled with fatigue, it was as if the life-giving heart of that being had ceased to beat. Without the busy, bustling person of Mrs Weasley crowding the space with her ample, cheerfully multi-tasking, homely domesticity, the small room felt oddly under-occupied. Her loss rattled in the stacked china cups, boomed in the empty stockpots on the shelf. It was inconceivable that she might never again be there to scourge them with her harassed scoldings and engulf them with her generous, motherly hugs. As the hours drained by and hope cooled on the rack, disbelief congealed into cold, hard certainty.

The gnome-trodden sheets lay bundled in a wicker clothes' basket in the corner, unfolded and unforgiven. They had been the Last Straw; they had to accept their share of the blame. Two days' worth of unwashed crockery and encrusted pans were piled anyhow in the sink, steeped in a stagnant marinade of grease-grey water. No one could be bothered with Washing Up Spells right now. The single hand of the kitchen clock couldn't decide whether to point to _'Time to feed the chickens'_ or '_Time to tidy'_ and kept swinging back and forth from one chore to the other like a bossy pendulum. The Weasleys' other magical clock, which Molly had taken to carrying around the house with her, just in case, lay unconsulted in the corner under a string bag of sprouting onions. Its nine hands had been stuck at _mortal peril_ for so long that this latest calamity had made no difference.

Hermione edged her chair closer to Ron's, putting a consoling hand on his arm, but he scarcely noticed. He was numb with shock, assuming the worst. Ginny was struggling on the brink of tears and even the twins, despite showman-like attempts to lighten the tone, were white and shaken and worried.

Molly had arrived safely in Diagon Alley; that much was certain. Madam Malkin confirmed that she had visited her shop and dropped off a parcel of robes to be altered, before leaving to buy the Jarvey. She had never reached the _Magical Menagerie_. There were no eye-witness reports of a scene or a scuffle. A simple vanishing would arouse no comment; wizards Apparated in and out of the Alley all the time. No leads; no clues.

"Dad said he'd Floo us if… …if he found anything," said Ginny unnecessarily, breaking the silence for the sake of something to say. Five pairs of eyes automatically flickered to the fireplace, up to the flowerpot of powder on the mantelpiece and back, expectantly, to the grate where the black-orange embers glowed undisturbed, refusing to respond on cue. Gloom eclipsed them once more. Ginny tried again.

"Why don't you tell Hermione _your_ news? Ron?" With a weak but plucky smile at Hermione, she gave her brother a nudge that sent a wave of tea slopping onto the table.

"Now look what you've done!" he growled. "News? What are you on about?" He was clinging, with his last shreds of hope to the 'No news is good news' philosophy – floating driftwood in a flood of pessimism – and didn't want to adjust his mindset.

"You know – you and Harry?" Little sisters don't let you off the hook that easily.

"You've seen Harry?" Hermione gaped at Ron. "How is he? _Where_ is he?"

The mention of Harry's name detonated a renewed explosion of guilt. In her anxiety about Mrs W, she had forgotten all about Snape's errand.

"Dunno. Buggered off again somewhere. We met up yesterday and took our tests. We passed. I passed."

"Your Apparition test? Well done! Eyebrows intact this time? I knew you'd do it. That's brilliant, Ron."

"Yeah."

His success should have been cause for celebration, for proud demonstrations, gratuitous displays of Apparating and Disapparating – Hermione remembered the twins exuberantly exercising their new skill at Grimmauld Place two summers before – but tragedy had stolen Ron's limelight and relegated his achievement to the status of a footnote.

"Mum would have been pleased," he tortured himself. "Bloody typical, isn't it? I've finally passed my test and she… she'll never know."

His chair rocked on its back legs as he thrust himself away from the table. He stood up and made a pretence of emptying his tea dregs into the accumulating swill in the sink. Hermione's chest ached for him. She knew how dreadful she'd feel if her mother were missing.

Uncertain now whether she ranked as a friend or girlfriend, Hermione felt suddenly superfluous, an intruder on a private family grief.

"Just nipping to the loo," she excused herself, doubting if, in their distress, the others even noticed her slipping out.

x x x

The orange riot that was Ron's bedroom made her head reel after the sombre hallway. Panting from the exertion of legging it up all five flights to the attic, Hermione leaned against the door jamb wheezing slightly as she caught her breath – it was a long time since she had done anything that strenuous. A shuffle through the castle corridors laden with book bags, or the occasional stroll down to Hagrid's was the most exercise she ever got these days. And now that she was home for the holidays, she didn't even have the daily ordeal of climbing up all those stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room to keep her in shape. 'Study' and 'sedentary' had more in common than their first and last letters. Competing shades of team-bright tangerine, mandarin and ginger stirred into a marmalade compote before her eyes. She stumbled to the bed (the Chudley Canons quilt now faded by years of laundering to a non-aggressive apricot) and sank down feeling hot and a little queasy, vowing to do something _soon_ about getting fit. A few more breaths and she sat up, wincing anew at the peeling paint and sagging posters, telling herself not to judge Ron too harshly for his ghastly, garish taste in décor. _How can he ever sleep in here? It would be like being baked alive in a red-hot copper cauldron. Oh, but he was young when he chose this colour - he's just never got around to changing it to something more grown up._ Did she believe that? Not for a minute.

Pigwidgeon's cage stood in the corner of the room, balanced on top of an empty fish tank and a pile of tatty magazines – _Quidditch Quarterly_, by the look of what little she could see. The door of the cage was open wide, bent right back on its hinges against the bars, but Pig was making no attempt to escape. The tiny Skops owl sat huddled on his perch, his head and neck sunken into his shoulders, balding and bedraggled like an ailing baby vulture.

In selecting Pig over Errol, Hermione had made the arbitrary choice of youth over experience. Errol was decrepit at the best of times: for years he had looked as though anything more vigorous than a hearty squawk would leave him grounded and gasping. Pig, on the other hand, was usually such a scrappy, flappy thing, flighty and excitable, enthusiastic albeit inept. He had the energy, if not the attention span. He would have to do.

On tiptoe, Hermione stole back to the door and, opening it an inch, put her ear to the gap and listened. The rickety staircase, with its creaks and groans and tell-tale wooden sighs, would have betrayed even the most stealthy footfall. But all was quiet. None of them had followed her, not even Ron. Disappointment jostled with relief. He had not bothered to seek out her company. It would have been an ideal opportunity to – what had Snape called it? – 'bury the hatchet'.

Thinking of Snape, Hermione pulled the phial of antidote from her pocket and, working at it gently with the ball of her thumb, eased out the stopper. A rush of skunky vapour, mandrake-based but tangy with bitter vervain and something unpleasant, unidentifiable but fiercely potent, shot up her nose, and in self-preservation she re-plugged the bottle. In the few seconds it took to cross the floor and kneel down next to Pig's cage, her eyes had started to water so freely that she could hardly see the owl inside. Cursing Snape and snuffling what she hoped to be words of birdy encouragement, she thrust her hand into the cage to grab Pig. The semi-stupefied owl pretty much tumbled off the perch into her open palm where he lay prone and unprotesting, helpless as an unfledged chick, utterly un-Pig-like. Blindly and with clumsy fingers, Hermione attached the note to the bird's leg while he was still immobilised. In days to come she would congratulate herself for this presence of mind. Brightest witch of her age? Too right she was! She'd show 'em!

Only then did she press the phial to the tiny beak, counting the requisite number of seconds while the bird inhaled the vaporising antidote. Hermione watched as the first signs of life fluttered back into the inert scrap. He blinked, a slow, owlish blink. Black, bright eyes glittered up at her, no longer dulled with the milky film of lethargy, but clear and – if not wise or intelligent – definitely alert.

Enclosed in the girl's cupped hands, Pig began to stretch, to flex his stiff, unused wings. Hermione could feel the little heart throbbing beneath the bony ribcage as vitality returned. Then he was twittering and struggling to be free, pushing against her fingers like a round, feathered Bludger straining against the box-straps. As she relaxed her grip, he shot upwards, rocketed towards the ceiling, cannoned off the lampshade leaving it lurching wildly from side to side, hurtled erratically round the room several times at head height, gaining speed with each circuit, and plunged towards the window. Hermione just had time to fling it open before the diving creature splatted into the glass. Flapping like a hyperactive hummingbird, Pig scudded through and fearlessly launched himself into the night.

"Find Harry!" Hermione shouted after him, without much hope. She continued to stare after the bobbing, bouncing, 'blue-bottle' bird, long after the tiny owl had disappeared from view.

"What's up? Hermione? You in there?" 

The girl blinked away the last of the antidote tears before turning to face Ron. Had she been watching the bird too long, or was the whole room dipping and rolling? As her eyes readjusted to the orangey glare she could make out Ron reaching up to steady the swaying lampshade, and the tip and swell of light subsided and finally stilled.

"I thought I heard you shouting." Luckily he didn't ask what she was doing in his bedroom in the first place.

"Oh Ron! I'm so sorry." She moved closer and gazed up at him, letting her reddened eyelids speak for themselves. "I wanted some fresh air, so I opened the window, and – well, I'm afraid Pig's escaped."

"Pig?" Ron glanced at the deserted cage.

"He just shot out. I'm really sorry. I thought he'd stay in his cage. I didn't mean…"

"Stupid owl. It's all right. He won't get far. You say he flew - all by himself?"

"Must have."_ No, in a miniature aeroplane._

"Bloody bird's mental." Ron leaned out of the window and shone his wand into the dark garden. "Probably crash-landed in a flowerbed or something. I'll have a look later. You OK?"

He had noticed her blotched face, but tears came as no surprise in this sad household. Hermione nodded bravely.

"I should go," she said. "My parents'll go mad if they find I'm gone. It'd be just like Crookshanks to bring in a live vole while I'm out. Mum won't -" she faltered over the mention of her mother; it seemed insensitive, "- won't touch them, and Dad says Crooks is my cat, so I'm responsible for his vermin…"

They walked down the steep stairs in single file, their hands sliding together along the banister.

"It's easy to catch voles really – all you need is a Wellington Boot. They think it's a tunnel…" Hermione chatted on, relief finding its voice in trivia. Mission accomplished. All she'd done was send a message and even that left her stressed and shaky. Deceiving your friends was harder than she'd expected. She'd never make a spy. How could Snape live like this, day in day out, lying to his enemies, his friends, everybody?

At the door she called out her goodbyes. Ron stood by, hands in pockets.

"Thanks. For coming tonight, I mean," he mumbled gruffly.

Their parting hug was more fraternal than romantic. Hermione gave his arm an extra squeeze.

"They'll find her. You mustn't give up, Ron," she whispered.

_Now where had she heard that before?_

_**End of chapter**_

1 cf. The Laughing Gnome by David Bowie


	3. Machiavellian Magic

New Perspective 2

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters andlocations are the property of JKR and her publishers.**

**A/N: Many thanks to all of you who managed to tear yourselves away from the World Cup, Wimbledon and 4th July celebrations to read and review.**

**Special thanks to Cecelle and Duj for previewing.**

**The story so far… Hermione has used Pig to send Snape's message to Harry. Molly has disappeared in mysterious circumstances.**

**Chapter 3: MACHIAVELLIAN MAGIC**

_Aeronautics?_ It wasn't difficult to guess who had thought up that password. Combined with 'Millicent's cardi', the code words were as effective as Alohomora. Barefooted and still in a dressing gown, although it was nearly lunchtime, Ginny led the way into the sitting room and dropped onto the sofa, curling her legs up beneath her. Yesterday the whole house had been paralytic with shock; today, though hung over with grief, The Burrow had sobered up and regained control of its faculties. The silt of despair had cleared; someone had tidied up. Ginny looked better too, rested and less fraught. Hermione remarked on it. Stifling a yawn, her friend nodded, her face creasing into a rueful half-smile as she surveyed the straightened cushions and neatly folded newspapers. Ron's stash of empty crisp packets and shrivelled brown apple-cores had disappeared too.

"It's Phlegm. She's kind of taken charge; been sorting us out." There was a time when this statement would have ended in the exclamation 'Bossy cow!' The nickname lingered, but had lost its bite. "She's been -" Ginny paused, reflecting, being fair. "Actually, she's been a brick. I don't know what we'd've done without her. She and Bill got in not long after you left last night. They'd been to Diagon Alley to interview the owner of the _Menagerie_ – not that he could tell them anything they didn't already know. Anyway, she'd picked up this potion to help us relax. What? Oh, I don't know – Pulsatilla, cowslip, skullcap… It's in that bottle over there on the window sill. And it helped a lot. It doesn't make things any less horrible, but it makes it easier to cope. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but…" She gave an open-handed shrug in apology for her nightclothes. "The twins have gone in to open up the shop. They thought they could question any customers – you know – better than sitting round here waiting for news… Dad and Bill are still out for the count. Though how they can sleep through that racket, I do not know."

From the top floor came the sound of angry, raised voices, loud enough to disturb even the ghoul in the attic…

XXX

"Look at it!" Harry thrust the scrap of parchment into Ron's bemused face, so close that he had to squint to see it at all. "Look at it and tell me that's **not** your handwriting. Go on, deny it!" With his back to the door, effectively blocking Ron in his bedroom, Harry stood, hands on hips, white-lipped and furious. "You can't, can you? Why? Because **you** wrote that note; **you** sent it. Admit it! Those loopy 't's of yours are a dead give-away. And how do you spell 'Godric's', hey? Tell me. Spell it!"

"Don't you shout at me, mate. I don't have to spell anything. Who d'you think you are, barging in here -"

Harry's raised fist had come so near that Ron was already screwing up his eyes in anticipation of a broken nose.

"**Spell it!**"Harry yelled.

"G.o.d.r.i.c.s."

"And the apostrophe?"

"Apostrophe? Goes after…" Ron was flustered now. "After the 's'."

"_Thank you_." That was the level of cutting sarcasm Ron was more accustomed to hearing from Snape. Before he had a chance to rethink, Harry had snatched back the note.

"What gives you the right to tell me where I can or can't go? What do you know about anything? If I want to go to Godric's Hollow, I'll damn well go, and there's not a thing you can do about it. I might stay there. I could _live_ there."

"Oh, piss off." Ron couldn't argue with Harry in this mood, irrational and ranting.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Harry demanded.

"Yeah, like I'm really in a joking mood right now," muttered Ron darkly. "If you hadn't noticed, I've got other things on my mind."

_Well, if Ron hadn't sent the warning, who had? _

"I'm sorry about your Mum and all that, but… You've got to admit, it's suspicious. _Your_ writing; _your_ owl…"

"Pig escaped! How many times have I got to say it? Somebody must have caught him and used him. It's not like there are that many healthy owls about at the moment – even Pig'd seem worth kidnapping."

The owl's miraculous recovery was another inexplicable mystery.

"But why would anyone want to warn me off The Hollow and lure me back here, unless -"

"If I wanted you back here I'd bloody well say so," grunted Ron. "I wouldn't invent some crappy message about Death Eater traps."

"And you're positive Hermione didn't send it – when she let Pig out?" Harry had to consider all possibilities.

"For Merlin's sake!"

"OK, OK. I was just asking. But it's fishy, isn't it? I can't think who'd have wanted to warn me, and why they'd want me to think it was you."

"What about Remus?" Ron suggested. "He's working on the other side. He might have heard some inside info, and wanted to give you a tip off without blowing his cover."

They ran through the list of potential anonymous well-wishers: Remus, Tonks, McGonagall, Hagrid, Shacklebolt, any member of the Order, friends of Bill or Mr Weasley at the Ministry. The evidence still pointed to Ron. Harry tried a more sensitive approach.

"You could tell me, you know. I mean, if it was you. I wouldn't hex you or anything. Well, I might have at the beginning, but ... I'd understand if…"

…_if you were cut up about your Mum and needed to talk._ Harry was himself upset about Mrs Weasley, but he hadn't had time to process his feelings. He was only dimly aware that some of that hurt was venting itself in his accusations against Ron.

For some reason Ron wasn't as defensive or as annoyed as he had every right to be – if, as he claimed, he were being falsely charged. He sat on the edge of the bed staring at his trainers without speaking. Then, without looking up, he said,

"Remember in the fourth year, when we thought – when**I** thought – that you'd put your name in the Goblet of Fire, and you swore blind you hadn't? And no one believed you?"

"So?" Harry was again bordering on belligerence. Surely Ron wasn't going to rake over those old coals?

"So, I didn't send that owl." _Believe **me** now._

And that made them quits.

xxx

The two boys sat side by side with the note balanced across their knees, where they could both read it. As forgeries go it was a good one: the writer had to be someone who knew Ron well. The twins? It wasn't flamboyant enough to be one of their japes. And, under the circumstances, they were no more likely than Ron to be feeling frivolous.

"We'll have to ask Hermione," Harry concluded, with a sigh of defeat. It was ignominious, always crawling back to the girls for help. "I mean," he hurried to add, seeing Ron inflating to her defence, "I mean, ask her to do one of her ownership/authorship spells. Like she did on _that_ book."

_This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince._

"I thought that was more of a jinx-detector spell? Fat lot of good it did us." Ron let out his breath in a snort. "Didn't tell us that greasy git wrote it."

Didn't tell them that the scribbled margin notes included spells as vicious and lethal as any Unforgivable. 'Specialis revelio' had told them nothing. Harry's annotated copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ had appeared to be no more than an old, dirty, dog-eared textbook. But still, Harry had implicit faith in Hermione's spell-work.

XXX

Downstairs the girls paused, listening to the sudden silence raging overhead.

"What do they find to argue about?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Harry was in a terrific strop when he arrived," answered Ginny. "We talked about Mum for a while, and he was very kind …" She had spent the morning trying to prolong, and at the same time forget, the feeling of his comforting arm around her shoulders. "But it was obvious he was seething about something. The minute he and Ron got upstairs…Well, you heard them. In some ways, it's probably a good thing – takes Ron's mind off Mum. Coffee?"

Ginny padded out to the kitchen. Hermione had to admire the way her friend had pulled herself together, with a little help from Fleur's Tearless Tonic. She was a resilient, sensible girl, not given to over-dramatising situations or unnecessary histrionics. Even after the experience with Riddle's diary, she had bounced back with remarkably little fuss. In a family with six brothers she had learned to be tough. It had been a surprise to see her so shaken the previous day.

Hermione, left alone, wandered across to the window, picked up the potion bottle, glanced idly at the label, put it down again. In the garden a couple of scraggy, brown chickens were strutting and pecking at nothing much in that brainless, repetitive, robotic way that hens have. Hermione half-expected to see the familiar figure of Mrs Weasley, in her over-large Welly-boots and flowery headscarf, trudging towards the hen house with a bucket of grain and chicken pellets in one hand and a basket hooked over the other elbow to collect the day's eggs.

The image blurred and Hermione blinked it back into focus. Mrs Weasley had always been so kind and welcoming and hospitable. Apart from that silly misunderstanding over Harry, when relations had become a trifle frosty, she'd always treated Hermione like one of the family – not a _close_ relative, but definitely part of the extended clan. That suited Hermione – she had no real wish to be added to the list for hand-knitted jumpers. Even when she'd started going out with Ron, his mother had been, on the whole, friendly and accepting. Perhaps she'd learned her lesson with Fleur.

In the armchair a small, round, fluffy cushion rolled over into a patch of sunlight and, with a throaty chirrup, revealed itself as Arnold. Collecting a newspaper at random from the neatly stacked pile on the sideboard, Hermione eased the Pygmy Puff onto her lap and sat down to catch up on the news. It was over a fortnight since she had seen a copy of _The Daily Prophet_. The Muggle press that morning had led with its obligatory 'silly season' shot of Diana, a long-lens paparazzi photo of her on a yacht in the Greek Islands. That non-event had dominated more newsworthy items such as the Swiss summit on the Cyprus issue, or the report that the MoD high security research facilities at Porton Down had launched a new research programme into bacteriological warfare. There had been a gloomy postscript to the River Severn school mini-bus crash: diver rescue teams had been recalled, having found no survivors.

Hermione let the folded paper lie on her knee and stroked Arnold. She was dreading seeing a picture of Mrs Weasley waving at her from the front page, but this issue of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ was three days old. There was no echoing of the Muggle news either. Instead several columns were devoted to Urban Brockworth, Chaser for the Tutshill Tornadoes, who had tested positive for Felix Felicis in Saturday's 2nd round replay against the Winbourne Wasps, and had been banned for the remainder of the season. His photo smirked unrepentantly as he gave a defiant victory salute to all readers, the double Ts on his sky-blue shirt flashing in time to a disapproving round of slow hand claps from the crowd.

Out of habit as much as interest, Hermione turned to the Obituaries section, where a new column, 'Disappearances' was now included alongside the regular Births, Marriages and Deaths. Two names pulsed off the page: Dorothea Bobbin and Diemen Ollivander. Wasn't that Melinda Bobbin's mother? Hermione recognised the name from school: one of the Slug Club, a cheerful, dumpy 6th year Hufflepuff who, with her disproportionately narrow shoulders and wide hips, always reminded Hermione of a Butternut Squash on legs. So her mum had disappeared too. Whatever did Voldemort think he was doing – waging a vendetta against mothers?

Mr Ollivander, who had been reported missing months ago, was missing no longer. Hermione didn't read the details; they were too depressing.

She was replacing the paper, about to choose a second when the door nudged open and Ginny reappeared with the coffees. The girl instantly and correctly interpreted Hermione's furtive straightening of the pile.

"She's not in them yet."

"No."

"Poor old Melinda."

"Yes." Although interested, Hermione felt it callous to start a conversation comparing the two disappearances. Ginny sensed her discomfiture. Putting on the proverbial brave face, she indicated a couple of new books on the sideboard.

"Mum would want us to carry on as normal. Have you read these? Dad got them for me – says it can never hurt to get 'one step ahead of the game'. I was expecting to find you with your nose buried in them when I came in."

The _Flourish and Blotts_ carrier bag had caught Hermione's eye the second she had walked in the room, but she had curbed her curiosity until now. Her book fetish was a standing joke in the Weasley household – she knew that all too well – and she hadn't wanted to reinforce the stereotype. She couldn't help but be drawn to the Muggle titles. The way her world was presented and explained to wizards was endlessly fascinating.

Ginny looked less than enthralled. She had not inherited her father's obsession with Muggledom, and was already questioning the sanity of choosing it as a NEWT subject. There was still time to change her mind.

"Apparently, they're revising the syllabus for Muggle Studies this year. Dad says they're trying to heighten awareness of the You-Know-Who situation by drawing parallels with despots from Muggle history. That comes under the Muggle Monarchy module. Later on in the term we do Muggle Medicine and then Muggle Mechanisation." She set the coffee mugs carefully down on the floor.

"What? No literature?" Hermione was scandalised. "Whoever set the course seems to have got hung up on their Ms. What about Muggle Music – that alliterates." She picked up the copy of '_Tyrants and Traitors'_.

"There's a great bit in that one. You must read it - it'll make you laugh. Here, let me find it for you." Ginny began flicking through the pages, searching. "Most of the people in this book don't seem to have been monarchs at all. Ah, here it is. Read that – from there, down to there."

Hermione scanned the paragraph. It was taken from a 19th century biography of Machiavelli by someone called Villari (1). As her eyes travelled down the text she could feel her mouth go dry and her throat constricting. It was just as well Ginny hadn't asked her to read out loud. The description was of a young Machiavelli:

'_Of middle height, slender figure, sparkling eyes, dark hair, rather a small head, a slightly aquiline nose, a tightly closed mouth; all about him bore the impress of a very acute observer and thinker. He could not easily rid himself of the sarcastic expression continually playing round his mouth and flashing from his eyes, which gave him the air of a cold and impassible (sic) calculator - '_

"Well? Remind you of anyone? Freaky, isn't it?" Ginny was clearly taken with her discovery.

Ron and Harry, hotly discussing the recent draw for the 3rd round of the Quidditch League, had ambled down to the kitchen, attracted, like bears to a picnic, by the smell of fresh coffee. They now appeared, mugs in hand.

"What's freaky? Apart from your face, of course. Oh, you're not still going on about that Mickey, Machy, Macaroni bloke again?" Ron groaned. "Give it a rest, Gins. So he looked like Snape. So all evil bastards look the same. So what?"

"Machiavelli," Hermione corrected, sotto voce, in between sips. "I don't know that much about him except that his name has become the byword for cruelty and manipulation. His reputation's based more on what he wrote than what he did. He was the author of a treatise on government, called _'The Prince' _-"

Harry spluttered into his drink and had to be patted on the back, a task Ginny undertook with unnecessary solicitude.

"Let me see." Ron reached for the book, but Hermione had somehow lost the offending page. Peeved, he ran his finger down the contents. "What a load of tossers," he scoffed. "Just listen to these names: there's your Snape clone – he sounds like a brand of spaghetti. Mussolini – he's just as bad. Haile Selassie… Ivan the Terrible – now, that's more like it. A man could be proud of a title like that. Where's the chapter on Severus the Sadistic Shithead? Pol Pot – what kind of a name d'you call that?"

"Well, you're the expert on ridiculous names, aren't you,_ Bilius_," snipped Ginny as a parting shot as she left the room. She had finally decided it was time to get dressed.

"She's right though." Blushing, his ears showing bright pink through his hair, Ron waited until his sister was out of earshot before conceding the point. "It _is_ freaky. Almost too much of a coincidence. It's uncanny, the similarity."

"What are you trying to say, Ron? If you're implying that Snape is a reincarnation of some 16th century Italian politician, you're crazy. That's complete nonsense." _Should she be defending Snape? Would they think she was strange not to join in the ridicule? Did he even want Harry to know that he was an ally?_

"Is it? Yeah, I suppose you're right." Ron scrunched his face and raked his fingers through his ginger hair, fluffing it up, so that for a moment he reminded Hermione of Crookshanks. "Stands to reason – if Muggles knew the secret of reincarnation way back in the middle ages, why would wizards now be faffing about with all this soul-splitting stuff?"

"Soul splitting? But that's a different thing entirely. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, and you're a specialist, are you?"

"No, I'm not. But I do know the difference between a sacred religious belief and dangerous dark magic. There isn't a 'secret' to reincarnation – it's a natural progression in an ongoing cycle of birth, death and rebirth. You either believe it's going to happen when you die, or you don't. And about a third of the world's population do believe in it. It's not something you_ choose_ to do to yourself. Whereas deliberately splitting your soul by murdering someone and then trapping the soul fragment in a vessel in order to achieve a kind of bottled immortality, is a _completely different matter_. I'd have thought even you could see that. And it's got **nothing** to do with Snape."

Hermione snatched the book back and engrossed herself in it, turning the pages rather too fast: it was blatantly obvious that she wasn't reading a word. Harry, marvelling at her spontaneous outburst of information and invective, could see this escalating into another full-scale argument. Why did Ron seem to attract such difficult, demanding women? Love leeches or bolshy blue-stockings. What was there to choose between them?

"I'll tell you what's_ really_ freaky," Harry said, dragging the subject away from tenets of Muggle faith (on which neither he nor Ron stood a chance against Hermione at full intellectual throttle) to the more conjectural topic of the mysterious note. He was gratified to see Hermione letting the provocative book rest on her knee as she gave him her earnest and undivided attention…

xxx

"No, Ron, you **canno**t simply jump to that conclusion." Ten minutes later the fractious pair was at it again. Harry despaired of them.

"I effing well can." To Ron the logic was incontrovertible: his mother had been kidnapped (he was still mentally using the word 'kidnapped'); Harry had been tricked into returning to The Burrow. Ergo, somebody had it in for Harry and the Weasleys were the bait. "They know my mum had, like, _adopted_ Harry, and that he'd come charging back here if anything happened to her. And whaddya know? Here he is. Getting a tad predictable there, mate. I tell you, Hermione, this place is an accident waiting to happen. Harry ought to do a runner while he still can."

"No!" Casting her eyes once more over the questionable note, Hermione was again astounded how, in those few seconds of shimmering magic in her garden, Snape had not only transfigured his original message into a perfect forgery of Ron's scrawl, but had also reproduced his spelling and idiom. _'Godrics' Hollow is an effing dung bomb of Death Eaters. You've gotta get out of there, mate.'_ She smiled to think of these phrases even going through Snape's mind. Of course he'd know Ron's handwriting – he'd crossed out enough of it over the years. Now she had to debunk Ron's theory. If Snape wanted Harry to stay at The Burrow, he must have good reason.

"Try to approach the problem from a logical standpoint," she advised. "The note doesn't even mention your mum, so how can she be acting as a trap? And anyway, what makes you so sure it's from an enemy?"

She hardly needed Ron to point out – which he did, in scathing terms – that secret, anonymous documents had a habit of turning out to be extremely dodgy. The diary, the potions book… Yeah, yeah.

"But the Marauders' Map was very useful. And it was ages before you found out who wrote that. Or what if Harry had refused to try on his Cloak or to fly his new broom – either of his brooms – because he wasn't sure where they came from?" Hermione could see her arguments washing away at the hard edges of his certainty; they were softening now like sandcastles in the first wavelets of the turning tide. It would be tricky to explain _why_ she was attempting to put a positive spin on the note, but she had to try. "Let's suppose the note's from someone who _doesn't_ want to bump off Harry - there must be a few of them out there. Why would they want Harry here?"

The boys stared at her, assuming the question to be rhetorical. When did Hermione need _them_ to supply an answer?

"Think about it," she went on. "How many members of the Order live here? Three. Or five if you count Fred and George. Six when Charlie comes home. And it's specially warded, isn't it? After Hogwarts this is about the safest place anyone could possibly be – unless you want to live in a Gringotts' vault. I'd say the note's from someone who has Harry's best interests at heart, who knows your family, but for reasons of his own doesn't want to identify himself or herself."

Patiently Harry ran through the list of suspects they had already considered and dismissed.

"What about Percy?" Hermione watched as the last, rounded mounds of the sandcastle washed away…

"Percy? That w---!" Whatever choice term Ron used to describe his brother was swallowed into a snort of disparagement. Hermione was sure it was not repeatable. "I don't see how that links in with Mum."

Poor Ron. He was so desperate to tie in the two incidents. It made him feel one step closer to finding a culprit to blame.

"It's just a dreadful coincidence, Ron," Hermione said kindly. "In real life coincidences happen all the time."

"What's a coincidence?" Ginny, clattering down the stairs, had caught the tail end of their conversation. She was rather more carefully dressed than was warranted by an average day at home. For all her capacity to cope, grief had lent her a touching air of fragility which tugged at Harry's protective instincts until he forced himself to look away. They were resolutely still just friends. "What have I missed? Bet you were talking about me!" Ginny insisted.

Hermione was across the finishing line with a plausible excuse before the two blank-faced boys had even left the starting blocks. They had agreed not to mention the note to Ginny.

"The Machiavelli-Snape thing. It's a pure coincidence."

"You think?" With the confident air of a Darwinian anthropologist about to unveil the secrets of the 'missing link', Ginny retrieved her book from the elder girl. "Chapter 7, it's in here… somewhere… aha! OK chaps, how about this then?" She paraphrased: "_'Niccolo Machiavelli was imprisoned for treason'_ – that's siding with the enemy, right? – _'tortured, exonerated, released…' _Hmm. All extremely significant, I'd say. Presumably he was beheaded or something for being an enemy of the state." She winked at Hermione. "And finally he… Oh, he died of stomach trouble. What an anticlimax. Still, it explains why Snape's always belly-aching at us. There you go - conclusive proof!"

"Q.E.D." agreed Hermione with a smile, relaxing out of the awkward moment. Personally she liked the outcome of this analogy; the others hadn't picked up on the inconsistency of an exonerated Snape.

Ron joined in, grinning, but secretly baffled as to who, if anyone, had had the last laugh; or if indeed this was the last laugh, or merely the latest in a continuously self-renewing cycle of sisterly jokes at his expense.

**End of chapter**

**OK, so I'm starting to throw a few balls into the air here. Hermione is finding herself getting sucked deeper into Snape's web of intrigue whether she likes it or not. And, if you guess from the way the conversation was going in this chapter that Horcruxes are going to be a part of this fic, then you'd be right. But it isn't going to turn into a 'Harry/Horcrux quest' story, I promise.**

**I haven't gone to town on the whole Machiavelli thing - I'm sure there are other fics which do that in great historical detail. I just threw it in for fun.**

**Thanks in advance for any comments/reviews.**

1 Pasquale Villari. The Life and Times of Niccolo Machiavelli (1897)


	4. No Relation

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended.**

**A/N: Sorry it's been a while since the last update. Holidays, teaching my son to drive, decorating etc all seem to have got in the way.**

**It seemed about time to have another meeting between Hermione and Snape – and this time he's not invisible. Perhaps he'll be able to tell Hermione something about Mrs weasley's disappearance.**

**Many thanks to my reviewers and especially Duj and Cecelle for their comments at first draft stage.**

**Chapter 4:NO RELATION**

Apparating is_ brilliant_, simply **brilliant**, decided Hermione. Flushed and elated, intoxicated with the sheer _improbability_ of wizard travel, she dumped the bundles of fresh herbs, which Neville had pressed upon her as a parting gift, onto the kitchen table. It's practical, flexible, environmentally friendly and free. It's so much better than a student railcard or a bus pass; it's quicker than a car and it's an instant solution to the problems of carbon emissions and traffic congestion. The Muggles are truly missing out here.

Funny how today the Muggles were 'them'; other days they might just as equally be 'us'. Wizards and Muggles; Muggles and wizards. Us and them. And which side of the fence was she on – or was she sitting on top of it? Fence? More like a revolving door which flung her out in one direction or the other, then swept her round again in a dizzying whirl of loyalties and allegiances.

Today had been a distinctly magical, witchy day. After calling in at The Burrow, as she did most days now – sadly still no news – she'd popped up to Pendle (ha! How she loved having the _freedom_ to do that, the ability to determine her destination at the flick of a thought,) to spend the afternoon with Neville. It was about time she filled him in on developments.

And now she was home again before her parents had even got back from work. It was all so wonderfully _efficient_. She pitied her mum and dad, separately leaving their city centre practices to spend an hour or more in the grasping remnants of the rush hour gridlock, catching up on 'The Archers' and 'Front Row' (her mother); or listening and repeating in dutiful tri-lingual rotation to 'Enrich your Holiday' Teach-Yourself French, Italian and Spanish tapes (her father). And to think they were seriously urging her to learn to drive!

'Consider it as another string to your bow, dear,' her mother had counselled. 'It may come in useful one day.' Humouring her, Hermione had unenthusiastically agreed to take a couple of lessons.

The boundless _scope_ of Apparating was only now beginning to dawn on her. The fun of it. When she'd first passed her test last Spring, she'd been rather guarded about applying her new skill: like flying it was another awesome wizard accomplishment, but she much preferred the tried and tested methods – what form of travel could surpass the comforting dependability of the Hogwarts Express? School hadn't afforded much opportunity to try it out either; for months it had been just one more laudable qualification. Nor had it been easy, despite what Ron said. He always implied that she didn't have to try, that these achievements came to her naturally, with no effort on her part. Not so. Those Apparition lessons had demanded all her energies; she'd had to work at it, to focus and concentrate, concepts unfamiliar to R. Weasley Esq. Success was the result of talent _and_ application.

With practice she was also getting used to the unpleasant sensation of de- and re-materialising. However unsettling the process might be (and she was lucky, it didn't affect her nearly as badly as it did poor Neville), the benefits more than outweighed the inconvenience. The potential was…breathtaking.

"Breakfast in Bordeaux, lunch in Lima, tea in Timbuktu, dinner on the Danube… How's that for an itinerary, eh, Crooks?" she crooned at the cat, scooping him up from the chair into her arms and slow-waltzing him round the kitchen. Crookshanks tolerated the indignity with aloof, yellow-eyed indifference. His ambitions for tea didn't extend much beyond a dish of 'Whiskas' on the kitchen floor.

"Where would _you_ go then, Cuddle-cat? Katmandu? Catford? Catterick? The 'Catacama' desert? The 'Puscat' of Oman…?"

x x x

"Popo**cat**epetl?" 

Oh no! Hermione whipped round, more mortified than afraid. First fluffy slippers and now dancing with her pet – how utterly, _utterly_ embarrassing. Her scholarly reputation was scuppered, floundering in frivolity. How did he _do_ that? Turn up when she least expected it? Had he been snooping about, waiting to catch her in a rare moment of levity? How many nights had she gone to let Crookshanks out and spent as much time as the cat hovering on the doorstep, scanning the garden for shifting shadows? How long had she lingered outside on the pretext of checking star readings for an astronomy assignment (her parents didn't know any better), in the hope that the professor would return? She had been determined not to be taken unawares a second time. She had planned to be calm, unfazed, professional, - even if he were invisible.

And now this! He arrives at the very minute she is looning around like a kitten spaced out on cat-nip. Did Crookshanks have Snape sensors? Was he jinxing her to behave like an idiot every time the man appeared?

The back door was half open, the dark figure of Snape filling the gap. He was visible.

"We do have a front door, you know. And a door bell." Too arch, too conventional - Hermione heard herself sounding prim and suburban, like the receptionist at her mother's surgery ('Have you an appointment? Do take a seat – Mrs Granger will be with you in a minute'.)

"You also have a neighbour washing his vehicle in the driveway," Snape replied dryly. He came in, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

_Make yourself at home, why don't you? Aren't wizards supposed to have rules about appearing unannounced?_

"If Muggles address their offspring in the same way as their animals, it explains a great deal." _Yes, go on, rub it in._ It was too much to expect him to let that little cameo pass without comment. Though surely Snape could have come up with something more trenchant – that barb-less jibe was virtually small talk. Or was it an attempt at an ice-breaker? Could it be possible that he too was uncomfortable? Hermione bent to deposit a dizzy Crookshanks on the floor, all the while keeping a wary eye on the professor.

"You startled me, Sir. You shouldn't -" 

"_You_ shouldn't leave the door unlocked. What is the point of my warding your house if you neglect to observe the most rudimentary precautions?"

_It's good to see you too, Sir. He had warded her house?_

"Harry got the note," she ventured. "He wasn't too happy about it, but he's been staying at The Burrow."

Snape's face registered no surprise.

"Indeed. I'd heard that the proposed ambush was abortive."

Working full-time for Voldemort had improved neither his temper nor his social graces. Hermione scoured Snape's features for any trace of the lonely, demoralised man she had last seen at Spinner's End, the man she had pledged to help. Health and revived hope had straightened his shoulders, squared the blurred outlines, sharpened blunted angles - it was as if the shaky grey edges of his being had been firmly redrawn in black using a ruler. It was difficult to recapture her earlier twinges of sympathy when he looked so forbidding.

"My parents aren't back from work yet," she told him over her shoulder, running the cold tap to fill the kettle. _Try to pretend it's perfectly normal to have Professor Snape in your house._ "You won't have to meet them."

"I'm aware of that."

Of course he was. Silly comment. Would he have turned up in her kitchen if there were the remotest chance of a confrontation with Mr or Mrs Granger? But how did he know they were out?

He was observing her now, with an almost scientific detachment, waiting for a reaction, to see how long it would take her to climb the pole, cross the rope, crawl through the tunnel and finally press the button to release the peanut. Hermione hated these lab-rat tests, having to perform for his approval. Oh – her hand almost shot in the air – there were no cars in the drive! Not clever, not magical – just a logical deduction. For a second she'd had a suspicion that he might have diverted her parents' journey, sent them off to some non-existent event like the deluded Dursleys.

Reaching out she rocked the switch 'on' and the kettle began its sequence of preliminary clicks and grumbles before settling down to boil.

"Mrs Weasley disappeared – did you know?" Know? He'd probably masterminded the whole kidnapping! Perhaps that was why he was here – with news of Molly.

"So I heard." In three flat words he dashed her hopes.

"Do you – do you know _anything_ about it, Sir? Do you know if… …if she's still -"

"Alive? I've been told nothing to the contrary." How could he be so unconcerned? Molly Weasley may not have been a friend, but they were both members of the Order, weren't they? That made her a colleague.

"The Weasleys are terribly upset. They've been searching all over."

"They're wasting their time." Snape shot her a warning glance: don't pry any further; draw your own inferences.

"It just seems so unfair. She's such a fantastic mother. She's like… like the archetypal mum."

"She possesses the requisite experience." Snape couldn't bring himself to eulogise.

"If it's a question of a ransom, or…or of 'leverage' – Mr Weasley says _he_ – You-Know-Who – can have everything they've got, such as it is. He says he doesn't wield that much influence at the Ministry, but… Can't you tell Vol-_ him_ that, Sir? The Weasleys are desperate - they'll do _anything_."

"Have they been contacted with any demands?" Snape's expression was calculating. Hermione wasn't sure if she liked it or trusted it.

"I don't think so. Not yet."

"Then assume they will not be."

Was that good or bad? What did that mean? That Molly was already lying mutilated in a ditch? That she was still under interrogation? That the motive for her disappearance was not coercion? Snape definitely knew something. And he had no intention of telling her what it was.

Behind her the kettle bubbled to a turbulent climax and clicked itself off. Snape jumped at the sound, hardly more than a twitch, but Hermione saw. That twitch was the net-curtain of his insecurity: he wasn't as assured as he would have liked her to believe.

She didn't know if he wanted tea, if he would be staying long enough to drink it, but she needed to hide her own nerves in the chinking of cups and saucers, the dispensing of tea-bags, the pouring of water. Anything to dilute the intensity of that stern re-assessment. Was it inevitable that each time they met she would be required to re-establish her credentials? Wasn't there some short-cut back to that oasis of honesty they had stumbled upon, briefly, at his house that night? Couldn't they agree on a route to fast-track them to a level of mutual confidence which said, 'We are in this together'? Perhaps they could designate a code word to represent everything about trust and need and commitment that they found so impossible to articulate? _Millicent's cardigan?_

There was nothing in the brewing stage of the tea making ritual that even remotely demanded her attention. Hermione turned back to Snape, wondering what had brought him back to her house. Another mission? Something was still bothering her from the last one.

"Sir, what if Harry had been there already – at the Weasleys', I mean. If I'd simply handed him the note. He'd have known the message wasn't from Ron."

"It wouldn't have been."

What did he mean? Hermione was on the point of asking when Snape forestalled her.

"I haven't come here to discuss Contingent Transfiguration. Look it up if you don't understand the principle. Ask McGonagall when you see her. Next time -"

"_Next_ time?" exclaimed Hermione. "Excuse me, but is this what you expect me to be – an _owl_? I thought -"

"You thought _what_? That you would be required to mount a persuasive and spirited defence before the entire Wizengamot? That you would sway the verdict, win my case against all expectations, and receive grateful plaudits from all and sundry for your intelligence and tenacity? Is the role of messenger too lowly, too _infra dig_? I thought you might have grown out of that by now - it was never enough for you to _know_ the answer; you had to be _seen_ to know it. That hand of yours barely stopped waving long enough to take notes in class."

Unfairness stung like a wasp in the mouth. Hermione's tongue swelled with indignation until she was unable to speak. Smarting in choked silence, she poured the tea, setting the two cups on the table without meeting his eye. From the scrape of wood on tile she could tell that he had taken the chair opposite her. The sullen standoff extended into awkwardness. Feigning unconcern, Hermione focussed on her tea cup, finding a sudden fascination in the delicately scrolled handle, the fine lip of gold around the cream china rim. Examining the indecipherably tiny stamped squares of the hallmark on the back of the teaspoon, she finally risked a surreptitious glance at Snape, in time to see him rubbing a weary hand across his forehead.

"Have you even _tried_ to get in touch with McGonagall?" he sighed. And there it all was in one sentence: recrimination, bitterness, an admission that he needed her help after all… and that flash of reproach which surfaced from somewhere deep and private for the briefest instant and disappeared – like the silver glint of a fish darting through the shallows on its way to the safety of dark water.

Hogwarts was closed for the summer. Although Hermione had Apparated to the main gate on more than one occasion, not even the miserable Filch had answered her call to be let in. The headmistress was unavailable and, without owls, uncontactable.

"It would make things a whole lot easier if you'd release that antidote of yours and get some owls back into circulation," she grumbled.

Snape cocked an eyebrow.

"All in good time."

"I was going to ask one of the Weasleys to send a Patronus," she told him, "but I couldn't very well – not with everything that's happened." As excuses go it wasn't one of her best, and she was talking to a pro – he'd heard them all before. She might as well have told him that Crookshanks chewed her homework. The next one was worse. "And I've been spending so much time in the library…"

…looking up references for Harry. He was anxious to continue where Dumbledore had left off, investigating the life and background of Tom Riddle – as long as he did not have to do the spadework himself. With magical sources inaccessible, Hermione had been concentrating on Muggle connections: Riddle's peer group at the orphanage, associates of his father, acquaintances made through his dealings on behalf of _Borgin and Burkes_. Most of it was old ground, already trodden by Dumbledore. There was precious little to go on.

While Hermione was talking, Snape had been evaluating the bunches of Neville's herbs with a professional eye, pulling at a sprig here and there, crushing the odd leaf, sniffing the juice-stained ends of his long fingers. Very soon the air was flavoured with the scents of mint and sage and sorrel.

"Excellent," he muttered.

It was unclear whether he was referring to the herbs or Hermione's endeavours. Assuming the former, she passed on Neville's best wishes.

"So, Potter is expecting you to supply him with information," Snape mused, shredding a head of lavender and thoughtfully pushing the fallen flowerlets into a perfect, purple pyramid. "That could be advantageous."

"How, Sir?"

He answered slowly, choosing his words with care.

"If I find myself in possession of information which may assist Potter in his, ah, _quest_, you will be admirably placed to pass it on."

The undue emphasis on the word 'quest' caused Hermione to look up sharply. If Snape knew about the Horcruxes why didn't he come out and say so?

"You're saying you may be able to help Harry find _what he's looking for_?" she angled back, shrewdly alert for any reaction. There was no mistaking his implication, but why wouldn't he mention the name? Was Horcrux another taboo wizard word, like Voldemort? "Sir, if you know where they are -"

"_They_? Merlin! How many are we talking about?"

The lavender flowers forgotten, Snape's hands had gone very still. Dismayed, Hermione stared at him in confusion.

"Six. Well, four really. Two have already gone – the ring and the diary. But you know that already, don't you? _Don't_ _you_, Sir?"

Evidently she had been wrong in her assumption that Snape, of all people, would have been in Dumbledore's confidence.(1) She had taken it for granted that the headmaster would have enlisted his right-hand spy-cum-Death Eater to obtain information about the missing Horcruxes. Who better to help him search for clues? And Snape had sounded knowledgeable enough just now when he was proposing himself as an informer. She'd never have brought up the subject if she hadn't wanted to tap into his insider knowledge of Voldemort and his history. Whereas all the time he had been milking her…

A hot wave of fury brought a rush of colour to her cheeks as intuition ambushed her with the truth.

"If you want to pick my brains, why can't you ask questions like everybody else?" she railed.

"And raise a prohibited issue about which you might be in total ignorance? And to which you would then devote hours of conscientious but ultimately fruitless research?"

How well he knew her.

"Fat chance of that. I can't get near a magical library 'til next term. But why all the subterfuge?" she demanded, upset ringing in her voice. Naively she had hoped they'd progressed beyond this stage of mistrust. "How do I know that you're not just using me to get to Harry? This information-gathering is a two-way street."

"Hermione -" The name brought her up short, until she figured that was precisely why he had used it. Ignoring her petulant outburst he went on. "You must tell me everything you know about the night Professor Dumbledore died – the events prior to my, ah, involvement."

There was no mistaking his sincerity now. The authority and seriousness of the request made it imperative. So she told him, as Harry had told it to her, starting sketchily with Harry's 'lessons' with Dumbledore, and leading up to the events of that night: the journey, the cave, the locket, the Inferi, the poison.

Snape listened in absolute silence, his face fixed and grave, but betraying nothing. Hermione was watching him anxiously as she spoke, realising how difficult it must be for him to relive those memories.

"I'm so sorry, Sir. I thought you knew. I'd assumed that somehow Professor Dumbledore had been able to communicate to you what was happening," she concluded on an apologetic note, finishing well short of the final moments on the Tower.

"At the end there was only one thought in Albus' mind," Snape muttered bitterly. "That, and the pain of the poison… I didn't have time to use full Legilimency. And since then…"

Since then he had been living the life of an outcast, hunted down by his former colleagues; Death Eaters his only contacts. How then could he have discovered the truth? Harry, Ron and she were the only ones who knew the whole story.

Snape's cup of tea sat cold and untouched on the table between them, a murky, unappetising brown ring of scum already forming on its surface.

"I'll make you another," the girl offered. "You look like you could do with it." The sympathy twinges had kicked in again with a vengeance. It was a relief to have an occupation, while he brooded over her news. She hadn't expected him to be quite so shocked. "But did you never suspect, Sir?"

Dumbledore had trusted Snape, hadn't he? It was inconceivable that he would have concealed from him something so important.

"Of course I suspected," he bridled. "As soon as I saw the damage that damn ring inflicted I suspected a Horcrux Curse. In all my experience of the dark, I'd never come across anything like it. But Dumbledore made light of it."

"Why would he do that, Sir? He must have known you'd be the best person to help him? Harry said that he kept asking for you, when they were coming back from the cave. You were the only one he wanted."

Hermione gazed at Snape, feeling helpless. She'd intended to show how much he had been appreciated, but her words had had the opposite effect. At the end, Dumbledore had shown such a touching faith in his abilities – why had he not trusted him earlier? Had he been protecting Snape from Voldemort, in the same way that he had tried to protect Harry – by shielding him from the truth?

Snape toyed with the tea cup. Perhaps she should have offered him something stronger.

"He was not expecting a cure. He knew… Before, last summer… I did what I could… but I was unable to save his hand." _Even when I challenged him he said he'd merely been careless, that the ring was a cursed object, but nothing more. I should have insisted. Curses can be pernicious - the one the Bell girl took was nasty, but I could counter it sufficiently to prevent its being mortal. This one was beyond my skill to reverse. If only I'd got there sooner…_

"You saved his life!" Hermione protested.

"Saved it? _Prolonged_ it. Eventually he would have succumbed to the corruption of the curse, whatever I did." Snape took a gulp of the new, hot tea. For almost a year he had been living with the guilty suspicion that he might have done more to save his old mentor, if only he had been trusted with the full facts.

"I assumed you'd been working together to locate the Horcruxes. It would have made sense…" Hermione was aiming to ease him away from retrospective soul-searching and towards an area where his input could still be useful.

"Made sense? When did anything that man do ever make sense?" Snape took another angry gulp of tea, piqued on two counts: at being excluded by the headmaster, and at being informed of the fact by this girl. Dumbledore had required him to report minutely on anything he heard relating to the Dark Lord's earlier life and possessions, ostensibly for the sake of the 'portfolio' he was amassing. There had never been any intimation that the old duffer was interested in specific objects. Snape's repeated questions had been countered with genial evasion. "And you say he's known about this since when – your _second_ year?" Hermione became the blameless target for his wrath; he was 'hexing the messenger'. "I raised the question – after the ring – and he categorically denied that he had any proof of the existence of a multi-fold Horcrux. Bah!"

"Well, he didn't have proof, not then anyhow. It was only a theory. He may have hoped the ring was the only one. It was only after Harry got the memory from Professor Slughorn -"

"That fat, corrupt, social-climbing lush!" Annoyed and betrayed, Snape was not inclined to be charitable about his portly colleague.

"Professor Dumbledore probably thought you'd got enough on your plate – what with the Vow and Draco, and your jobs…"

"Quiet, girl; let me think." Any hint of sympathy and the shutters slammed down.

Several minutes passed, during which Hermione became increasingly and acutely aware of her surroundings - the electrical drone of the fridge thermostat, the neatly ticking wall clock, the aromatic pungency of the cut herbs, the hardness of her chair, the solidity of the table, the tea, her fingers circling her cup, Snape's hand only inches from her own – and then oblivious to them as her attention became ineluctably drawn into the orbit of the man sitting opposite her. It was not often that one got an opportunity to study Snape; he shrank from outside scrutiny. She observed him closely: the changing frown lines marking shifts in concentration from one problem to the next; the deeper lines of tiredness etched more permanently around his eyes; the beaky nose foreshortened and less prominent viewed from this angle. She wished she could as clearly see the thought processes going on inside his head. So absorbed was she that she started when he spoke.

"So, Potter is devoting his energies to Horcrux hunting. And you, I take it, are assisting him with his investigations. Presumably you have already ransacked the library at Hogwarts? And failed to satisfy your enquiries?"

Hermione nodded.

"It was useless, even the Restricted Section."

Snape's raised eyebrow was not, for once, accompanied by a scowl of disapproval.

"Quite so. Horcruxes are a banned subject at Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore insisted that all references should be expunged or expurgated from the texts. He was particularly exacting on that score."

"But if there are no wizard texts about them, how am I ever going to find out anything - even if the library was open, which it isn't?" moaned Hermione, discouraged before she'd even begun. Research, which usually underpinned her discoveries, now seemed sabotaged to undermine them.

"Who says there are no wizard texts? You have limited your searches to Hogwarts?" His tone implied that she had been parochial, narrow in her thinking.

"Well, I did wonder about trying Grimmauld Place. The books there would have belonged to the Blacks, wouldn't they? But Harry and Ron went over the house really thoroughly a couple of weeks ago(2), - though I don't expect they read any books - and they wouldn't let me come, and now it's all locked up again, and…"

"The Ministry? Knockturn Alley?" Snape aced her with suggestions.

But she'd need official authorisation to access Ministry information – it wasn't like a public lending library - and as for the Alley… On her own? That brief foray into _Borgin and Burkes_ had been creepy enough, and at the time she'd known that Harry and Ron were waiting for her in the street outside.

"I know there's been a big security crack-down at the Ministry since Scrimgeour took over," she said. "I don't know if they'd let me in. Harry might stand a better chance. Scrimgeour's always gunning to get Harry on side; he might do him a favour. But he'd expect something in return." She took a breath and steeled herself. "So, if I went to Knockturn Alley, Sir…"

"On second thoughts, don't bother." Snape was crudely dismissive. "Looking as you do, you'd attract undue attention. They're a canny lot – they'd spot your sort in seconds. It's hardly the place for lone females, unless…" A trace of embarrassment prevented him from completing the sentence. "I am assuming you do not have a secret supply of Polyjuice? Has McGonagall covered Full Body Transfigurations with you yet? No? Maybe just as well; that too is a fraught business. I couldn't risk… Very well, one must narrow the field. Sticking for the time being with Hogwarts, then. Have you exhausted the possibilities of the Room of Requirement?"

_The Room of Requirement? Did he know that was where Harry had stashed his old Potions book? Was he trying to retrieve it? How could one hope to 'exhaust the possibilities' of a place when its appearance, and (for all she knew) its very existence, depended on the varying needs of each visitor? When Harry had been trying to access it to find Draco, it had remained stubbornly unavailable. She might struggle for weeks simply to find the door._

Glumly, she shook her head. She was still smarting from his 'your sort' comment. What _sort_?

"Hogwarts seems to be all locked up too."

"We can work on that obstacle."

_We_! He'd said 'we'. In Hermione's brain, Snape's unconscious use of the plural pronoun eclipsed the meaning of the sentence. He was finally taking her seriously.

"Miss Granger, has it ever occurred to you to wonder why the headmaster should be so, ah, punctilious on the subject of Horcruxes?"

_Because they are bad, evil accessories used in the vilest, darkest, most despicable magic, and he was protecting his pupils? Isn't that enough? Or because -._ An alarming thought occurred to her, something she would never have previously considered.

Snape's eyes were on hers, sensing the sudden expansion of her awareness, the enhanced receptivity to the unthinkable.(3)

"No. Dumbledore would never have done anything like that…" she breathed, ducking away from the unwelcome, persistent horsefly of a thought.

"No, indeed. Now, concentrate. Can you think of _another_ wizard who devoted his life and expertise to the pursuit of immortality?"

As the name leaped into Hermione's protesting mind, Snape's lips curved fractionally upwards.

"Very good. I suggest you begin your investigations with some groundwork. See what other connections you can unearth. You need not confine yourself to wizard texts. You said you had access to Muggle sources of reference?"

"I've got a reader's card for the British Library. But I don't see what good -"

"Because, Miss Granger, Nicolas Flamel was Muggleborn."

x xx

By the time they heard the crunch of tyres on the driveway, Hermione was armed with an action plan.

Snape slipped soundlessly out of his seat.

"By the way, Miss Granger," he paused in the doorway. "You can put the idea right out of your thoughts. He is, I can assure you, no relation."

"Who isn't?"

"Machiavelli."

**End of chapter**. Any comments will be much appreciated. Thanks.

1 I have taken the premise that Dumbledore had not confided in Snape on the subject of the Horcruxes, based on the lack of canon evidence. The opposite hypothesis, that Snape was helping Dumbledore to locate the Horcruxes, could be equally valid. But I had to chose one or the other!

2 Harry and Ron at Grimmauld Place. There is a reference to this in The Chosen.

3 His eyes were on hers – I'm not suggesting that Snape subjected her to a full unauthorised Legilimens here (though in the first chapter, Hermione suspected that the invisible Snape may have done just that). But he may have used his powers to enhance his intuition and help him to assess her reactions, and in doing so he picked up on a couple of her front-of-mind thoughts.


	5. Heartsearching And Horcruxes

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement is intended.**

**A/N: A couple of you have asked if Neville is going to be in this story. The answer is a definite yes, though he doesn't turn up until a little later. His role is not quite as pivotal as it was in The Chosen, but he does appear in both a Neville-Hermione and a Neville-Snape chapter. **

**I have deliberately avoided getting embroiled here in the Harry as Horcrux debate, or in trying to track down the missing Hufflepuff Cup or even the locket. This isn't going to be a typical 'quest' story, but in order to be HBP compatible I felt I couldn't ignore the ghastly subject of Horcruxes altogether. Bear with me – there is motive in my madness. Just remember that everyone has a hidden agenda…**

**Chapter 5: HEART-SEARCHING (AND HORCRUXES)**

When the score reached 170:30 to Harry, Ron threw down his gloves and declared. He'd had enough of Keeper practice.

"You can't 'declare' when you're losing," objected Harry. "You have to 'concede'."

"Whatever. You declare then. I'm jiggered."

As they flew back towards The Burrow, they played 'Pass and Catch' with the Quaffle and then, hovering over the back yard, amused themselves for a while dive-bombing the gnomes, but their hearts weren't in it. Quidditch wasn't going to be the same without Harry as captain. Ron was debating whether he'd even bother turning up for try-outs next term. It was when Ron finally fluffed another throw, missed the gnome (who jinked to the left at the last minute and scuttled under a blackcurrant bush, shaking his tiny fist) and accidentally concussed an unsuspecting hen that they called it a day and touched down in the yard.

Ron slumped himself on the low stone wall which had, at one time, flanked the border of an area of paved patio, but now stood in redundant isolation in the garden like some partially excavated Roman relic. The rest of the wall had been blown to dust and gravel in one of Fred and George's early fireworks experiments. The resultant crater now formed the pond where long-toed frogs performed their elegant breaststroke in between the lily pads or, submerged and motionless, surveyed the world their bulbous eyes breaking the surface like brown warts on the water.

Harry joined Ron on the wall. The boys' faces, hot from flying and now burnished by the last brave, stray rays of late afternoon sun, would have been well camouflaged in Ron's orange bedroom. Harry blew out a long sigh.

"What the hell am I doing?"

Ron pondered. To him it seemed an unremarkable question, rooted more in the bewildering complexities of everyday life than in any metaphysical crisis. His reply was appropriately profound.

"Dunno, mate. Having a staring contest with that toad?"

"Cheers." Harry, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, gave his friend a humourless sideways glance. The toad had won. "No, what I mean is – who am I kidding? It's a joke, right? This 'Horcrux quest' rubbish. OK, I want to nobble Voldemort (sorry,) and finish him off once and for all - and it doesn't seem as though I get much choice in the matter, not with that blasted prophecy hanging over my head - but how am** I** supposed to do any better than Dumbledore? He spent _years_ trying to track down the stupid things and what? Ended up with his hand fried, that's what. And the next time he ended up dead. Wow, how's that for an encouraging thought? And all for what? Nothing! Where did it get us? Nowhere! Up the swanny with a dead duck on our hands. Bloody wild goose chase!"

To Ron it seemed that there were too many wildfowl muddying the water. He shrugged in a generally supportive way, his attention diverted by the sight of the dazed chicken weaving across the yard, perilously close to the edge of the pond. Could hens swim?

"A year!" Harry was only just warming to his grievances. "A whole year of special lessons and what have I learned? Enough for a buddy episode of 'This is Your Life'. But do I know how to identify a Horcrux? Do I heck! I wouldn't recognise one if it came up and asked me to dance. That wheelbarrow could be a Horcrux for all I know. And supposing, just supposing, that a miracle happens and I find one, then what? What the devil am I meant to _do_ with it? Did it occur to Dumbledore, during the course of that entire year, to teach me any useful Horcrux-zapping spells? Well, sorry, no. It did not. Slight oversight. Why? Because he didn't know any, did he? The greatest wizard alive, and _he_ couldn't figure it out. _And I can?_ I tell you, Ron, it's a farce. I might as well give up now. I'm completely out of my depth here. I don't know where to start looking."

"There's Nagini." It was just a name to Ron.

"Nagini? Yeah, marvellous. Ron, have you any idea how _big_ that snake is? Fair enough, she's no basilisk, but she has this unfortunate tendency to hang out with Voldemort and a bunch of Death Eater creeps. Besides which, there is the minor detail that we don't know where the hell they are living. Nagini, eh? Good one!"

His laugh had overtaken ironic and was nudging towards manic.

"Well, what about the stuff from Hermione?"

"And that's another thing!" Harry exploded. "I've spent the past two days trudging up and down glaury(1) glens accosting flint-faced Highlanders, and trying to find anyone who can tell me about some poxy inscription that I can hardly read, let alone understand. They're all terribly happy to recite chunks of the ballad of Ossian(2), or to bang on about the Campbells massacring the Macdonalds(3), but when I ask them about Rowena Ravenclaw it's like, 'Och aye, Jimmy. Who?"

**XXX**

"_**Ultio in scripto;**_

_**stilus quam gladio potentior."**_

_(Revenge lies in the written word;_

_the pen is mightier than the sword.)_

Snape had slipped Hermione this snippet the evening after their talk in the kitchen.

"Take this to Potter," he had whispered, turning almost instantly to leave.

"Sir, wait -" Hermione clutched at his sleeve and he paused, eyes widening at her presumption. "That's all very well, Sir, but what does it mean? Where shall I say it's come from? Harry's not stupid – he's bound to ask."

Snape looked as though he might have liked to dispute that last statement.

"Professor Binns would be disappointed. He always boasted that you were the first student to have read and memorised the whole of _Hogwarts: A History_. Do you not recognise the allusion?"

Hermione shook her head, her role reduced once more from that of partner to pupil. Snape continued hurriedly; tonight he was in a rush to be gone, to return to… to whatever it was he did when he was working for Voldemort.

"History records that when the Founders went their separate ways, Ravenclaw challenged Gryffindor with those words – a defiant affirmation, if you will, of the supremacy of brain over brawn. Several of her followers adopted it as their credo. The inscription itself may still be read on a memorial which stands, I believe, in or near her birthplace. And now, if you will unhand me, Miss Granger, I have to leave."

Thrilled by the exciting possibilities of this new lead, Hermione had forgotten to let go of Snape's arm.

"But, how did you find out -?"

"It is a saying I have heard the Dark Lord quote on more than one occasion. It had always struck me as being contradictory to his preferred _modus operandi_ - I had assumed his intention to be ironic. Until our conversation yesterday I had not realised its potential significance. On the other hand, it may be of no relevance at all – that is for Potter to ascertain. I leave it to you to concoct a plausible source. Goodnight, Miss Granger."

**XXX**

Hermione could hardly wait to tell Harry.

"It was in _Hogwarts: A History_ all the time," she had announced brightly, confident that he wouldn't dream of reading up on it himself. "I can't imagine how I missed it before. Think about it, Harry. Hypothetically you're looking for something that belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw, right? So let's start with what we know. We _know_ that at Hogwarts there is an object which belonged to Godric Gryffindor."

"The Sorting Hat?" said Ron, not following her drift at all.

"Gryffindor's sword!" exclaimed Harry.

"Precisely. But, unless Professor Dumbledore made the most unbelievably crass oversight in history, we know that it's just a sword. Yes, I know it's a _special_ sword." She fended off Harry's incipient protest. "It did a great job on the Basilisk. But it's not a Horcrux, right? However, think about that quotation. If we interpret it literally, instead of taking it as a metaphor for the power of intellectuality over physicality - bingo! What are we looking for?"

"A book?" asked Ron dubiously. There were about a billion books in Hogwarts library alone; was Hermione suggesting that they read them all? Because if she was, she had another think coming…

"A pen," Harry answered with a certain dreamy satisfaction. He at least was on the same page. "But would a pen survive a thousand years? And does it mean an actual pen, or a quill? Don't quills rot? Or are they like bones?"

"Things can survive for ages if they're kept under the right conditions. Think about Roman jewellery, or some of those ancient Celtic torques – still as good as new. Ravenclaw's pen might have been metal – something more ceremonial, just for show," suggested Hermione. In her mind she pictured an ornate bronze shafted implement, capped with a wide-winged ornamental eagle.(4) Of course, there was no hard evidence as yet that such an item had ever existed, that the founder had ever owned it, or that there were any circumstances under which Voldemort might have turned it into a Horcrux - she couldn't betray Snape, her anonymous source, and reveal that Voldemort himself had shown more than a passing interest in the inscription and all that it implied.

"I know it's not much to go on," she apologised, "but it's a lead of sorts. It's not as though we've got anything better. Or would you prefer to spend your time chasing after Mundungus or grubbing round the ruins of Godric's Hollow? Come on, Harry, you know you've drawn a blank there." She addressed him directly. "This is a fresh start. You can follow it up. See if there's a Ravenclaw heritage museum – no, on second thoughts, we'd have heard if there were anything official. But there may be some local crackpot collector who's got a stash of Founders' commemorative whatnots hidden away. Or there may be legends connected to the memorial which would give us more clues."

"Terrific," muttered Harry, with waning enthusiasm. "I do the grunt work. And what are you going to be doing, while I'm icon hunting?"

"Me? Oh, I'll be in the library. Something, er, _Ginny_ said the other day has given me an idea."

And further than that Hermione would not be drawn.

**XXX**

Harry leaned back with his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face, allowing it temporarily to bleach out the burden of his destiny. Next to him on the wall, Ron was flicking dry soil at a purposeful, solitary ant, pursuing it into a crack in the stonework, and then flinching away as the whole indignant colony erupted between the stones like soda from a shaken bottle.

"Do you reckon it's kosher, all this gen(5) of Hermione's?" Ron mooted, as if he had his doubts. He edged closer to Harry as the ant army adopted battle stations. "A bit suss, isn't it – suddenly coming up with this Ravenclaw pen idea? How come Dumbledore never said anything?"

Harry took a while before he answered. Yes, he'd been sceptical too at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he had felt it was worth checking out. After all, Hermione had merely put forward a suggestion; she hadn't made any false claims as to the putative pen's authenticity. In the past her research had usually paid off: he thought wryly about the meticulous brewing of Polyjuice, the scrap of paper identifying the basilisk, her dogged detective work to find Nicholas Flamel and Eileen Prince. So what if she'd drawn a blank on Horcruxes so far? It was about time they were due for a lucky break.

"She's approaching it from the opposite end," he said slowly, rationalising it to himself at the same time he was explaining it to Ron. "Dumbledore was looking for things owned by Voldemort, some of which might have belonged to the Founders. Hermione's finding stuff that belonged to the Founders and then trying to establish a link with Voldemort. Oh, get a grip!" If there was one thing that irritated Harry, it was this feeble wincing at the name. "If I call him Riddle, can you hack that? Where was I? Oh, yeah – it's a long shot; she said so herself. But she's been spending long enough on research. She's bound to make some progress eventually."

"So you believe her then, when she says she's been holed up in the library?" Ron's tone implied that he didn't.

Something was bothering Ron. Something more than his mother's disappearance and the looming ignominy of being dropped by the Quidditch team. Harry, inexperienced though he was, already knew enough to recognise the signs of 'girl trouble'.

"It's not Lavender again, is it?" he asked. "I thought she'd finally given up. Hermione? What's she done now?"

What _hadn't_ she done? Been in a high and mighty huff for the first fortnight of the holidays – hadn't been to see Ron once, even though she was the one with the Apparating licence. Then she'd turned up practically in the middle of the night and lost his owl. And the two of them could scarcely be together for five minutes before they started scrapping over something or other. But she was a friend.

"Come off it, Ron. You know Hermione's got a soft spot for you. The minute she heard about your Mum, she dropped everything and rushed round here to see if you were OK. You're well in there. What's the problem?"

Ron's mumble was unintelligible.

"She's _what_?"

"I said, 'I think she's seeing someone else'," Ron repeated disconsolately.

Could that be true? McLaggen wasn't the only one who'd taken notice of Hermione last year. Since the fourth year at the ball people had begun to realise there was more to Hermione Granger than high grades and homework, that she might exceed expectations in more ways than one. But Hermione wouldn't cheat on Ron, would she? She'd only been out with McLaggen to make him jealous. No, Ron must have got his wires crossed. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Who?"

"I can't be sure, but… It's not like I've got any proof as such… But while you were away I went round to her place. Thought it'd be nice, now that I've got my licence - I mean it's a bit off, her coming over here every time. What kind of a loser does that make me look? I thought we could talk – just us, you know, without Ginny popping in, and without being reminded all the time about Mum and everything… It was about time we got things sorted out between us - it's all got a bit _bleurgh_…" Here Ron mimed throwing a wobbly jelly vase on a Potter's wheel, which Harry found disturbingly graphic though incomprehensible. "And after all that, she was out. 'In the library', her dad said, or maybe 'visiting a friend'. Had 'visited' – huh! - him several times. You see? Him! She's seeing a bloke."

_"Who?"_

"Their house smelled like Culpeppers. And have you noticed how she keeps bringing that 'bewky garney'(6) for Fleur, and how the windowsills here are suddenly littered with those daft baskets of 'purry poo'?(7)"

"**Who?**"

"He can't be as nerdy as he looks. He's not half bad at Defence now. Sure, he's a right swot when it comes to Herbology, but she probably doesn't mind that… AND he can dance,(8)" Ron gloomed, quite the tragic hero.

"Not Neville?" Harry had to laugh.

"I hope he chokes on his Mimbulus Mimbletonia! I hope his shiny shoes squeak! Next time I see him I'm going to sock him one. Serve him right."

"No, mate. You've got it all wrong. There's nothing going on there."

Ron did not look at all convinced.

"Ask her yourself."

XXX

Hermione and Ginny had just emerged from the kitchen. They waved at the boys and began to walk to wards them. Both girls looked suspiciously pleased with themselves.

"Hi there! Gosh, you look hot." Ginny greeted them with a giggle. "Fleur wants to know if you'd prefer '_Chausettes flambées dans la poubelle_'(9) or '_Limaces ratatinées avec coccinelles_'(10) for tea."

"You what? Right. Yeah, um, they both sound really good. Either suits me fine. I'm starving," blustered Ron, wondering why his sister was having trouble keeping a straight face, and why Hermione was studiously avoiding catching his eye. Their heart to heart would have to wait.

"And I've been cross-referencing the Della Porta manuscript with the Bruno archive from the stacks."(11) Hermione was glowing with the academic buzz her body mistook for adrenalin. "You'll never guess what I've found out."

That, reflected Ron, was so true.

**END OF CHAPTER**

**1 glaury – miry, muddy**

**2 Ossian – Legendary 3rdC Irish warrior-poet, allegedly buried in Glencoe.**

**3 Massacre of Glencoe, 1692**

**4 an eagle – the Ravenclaw coat of arms features an eagle, not a raven.**

**5 gen : information. (This usage is common in the UK but not, I'm told, in the US.)**

**6 bouquet garni**

**7 pots pourris**

**8 Neville can dance – OK, I've taken that from the film.**

**9 Chausettes flambees dans la poubelle – socks fried in the dustbin**

**10 limaces ratatinees avec coccinelles – wizened slugs with ladybirds**

**11 Della Porta, Bruno - don't worry; I'll explain in the next chapter.**


	6. Connect 4

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters are the property of JKR, her publishers etc. No copyright infringement is intended.**

**A/N: This chapter takes the thorny subject of Horcruxes into an unexpected direction. For a while it becomes a kind of _Harry Potter meets the Da Vinci Code_. I have been playing with history. It is meaty stuff, but as you read it bear this in mind: the information (apart from one name) is all quoted from historical sources. I find that quite spooky. It just goes to show how one can twist the truth for one's own ends…**

**Thanks, as ever, to Duj and Cecelle for their comments on the first draft. And, if you have reviewed, thank you.**

**The story so far: Snape has provided Harry with a new lead in his hunt for the Horcruxes. In his last conversation with Hermione, Snape also suggested that she spend some time researching Nicolas Flamel. Ron suspects Hermione of having an affair with Neville. Mrs Weasley is still missing.**

**The action cuts between the British Library and the Weasleys' house.**

**Chapter 6:CONNECT 4**

London's morning tide of commuters had surged down the platform as one body; single-minded, self-absorbed Bad Samaritans. No one noticed the bushy-haired teenager appear in their midst and join the flood as it pushed through the ticket-barrier and fanned out into the delta of the station concourse. As the crowds seeped away to the taxis, buses and tubes that would whisk them on the next stage of their journey, Hermione headed for the Euston Road exit. Leaving behind the brick magnificence (or monstrosity, depending on your architectural inclinations) of St Pancras, she walked straight down to the main road and took a right.

The British Library was a few minutes' walk from here, but she preferred to Apparate into the bustling anonymity of the station. On her first trip she had made the mistake of re-materialising inside the piazza of the library itself, much to the gawping astonishment of a party of school children who, questionnaires in hand, were earnestly answering question 4 with unrecognisable sketches of the bronze statue of Sir Isaac Newton.

"That's gravity for you!" she'd laughed, ad-libbing frantically. "Things just drop right out of the sky!" Feeling like a cross between Mary Poppins and a giant apple fallen on the collective heads of the stunned class, Hermione had strolled to the foyer with seeming nonchalance and then, as soon as she was out of sight, made a dash for the loos where she'd spent the next ten minutes trembling and faint with embarrassment. For the rest of the day she had had the uncomfortable sensation that she was being followed, being stalked by chattering, pointing, blazer-clad midgets.

Today she strode confidently through the Portico, admiring as always the bold frieze which spelled out in giant letters the words 'British Library' (in case any visitors remained in doubt), across the courtyard, past Newton(1) – looking more Neanderthal than one would expect from the 'father of modern physics'– and into the Entrance Hall.

Many years ago her parents had brought her here to the Treasures Gallery and, solemnly and without understanding the significance of the names _'Magna Carta'_ and _'Lindisfarne Gospels'_, she had stared in awe at the ancient pages on display in the thermostatically regulated glass cabinets.

After the obligatory bag search, a flash of her reader's pass gained her access, and she made her way directly to the Manuscripts' reading room on the second floor. It was everything that Hogwarts' library was not: clean, airy, spacious, dust-free and organised. There was even something vaguely nautical about the high, white ceiling and gallery, the tall white columns and indigo blue of the carpet. Behind the counter, the long-nosed librarian assessed the proffered requisition form and motioned her to a seat at one of the pale, leather-topped desks. Hermione was happy to wait. The muted pulse of academe and the gentle wash of studiousness which lapped around the bowed heads of the readers were comfortingly amniotic.

Some time later the librarian – a slight, soricine woman whom Hermione would have mistaken for frail had she not, while queuing at the desk, seen her lift a pile of journals the size of a hod of bricks – whispered for her to accompany her to the office. Fingering her wand, Hermione trailed behind the straight, primly-clasped pony-tail, noticing how the faded, two-tone blonde highlights added a stale hint of mustard and vinegar to the underlying salt and pepper. She was at a loss as to how, in the few moments she had been in the building, she had infringed the regulations. She had not been eating, drinking, smoking, running or shouting; she had not defaced any pages or stuck gum under her chair; she had taken neither tracings nor photographs, nor lifted a manuscript from a book-rest in order to examine the watermarks. What could she have done? Had her first unorthodox arrival a couple of days ago been caught on security camera?

Miss Shrewsniff took up a defensive position behind a substantial oak desk and began the gratuitous paper-shuffling which prefaces any awkward conversation. Hermione recognised the form she had so painstakingly completed, having spent several hours poring over the listings in the Main Index on her previous visit, and which she had optimistically submitted that morning. The woman's right hand remained out of sight under the desk - either she's holding a wand or she's ready to hit the panic button, guessed Hermione, calculating her own chances of making a run for it and Apparating to safety.

"There seems to be a problem over some of the manuscripts you have requisitioned. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you a few questions…"

**XXX**

"Disappeared?" Ron echoed the word in a monotone, unable to gauge whether to be alarmed or relieved. There was Hermione, bright-eyed and bushy-… Well, bushy-haired, actually, looking as smug as if she'd caught a Snitch and presented it to him with bows on, and he couldn't see what all the fuss was about. So a few dingy old books had gone missing. So what? He lost books all the time and he didn't even possess that many. In a library, where there were thousands to choose from, it must be impossible to keep track of the things.

Harry's expression was equally ambivalent; for once he was biding his time, waiting for a signpost before committing himself to any particular opinion.

"What I don't get," said Ginny, as she cleared more space on the coffee table for Hermione to spread out her notes, "is how my rabbitting on about Machiavelli could have led you to this Bruno guy in the first place, and the other chap." No one ever remembered Della Porta's name, poor bloke. "They're all Italians, but after that – sorry, you've lost me too."

"Reincarnation," grunted Hermione, hefting a heavy backpack onto the chair. The boys stared with mounting dismay as she began to unpack: a bulging box-file, two ring-binders, several reporters' notepads and a stack of loose notes which, by Ron's standards, could have been the fruits of a whole term's work. There were pages upon handwritten pages, all in Hermione's neat, regular script, divided with underlined subheads, ruled into sections, with certain lines, words and paragraphs highlighted in day-glo yellow, green or purple. Ron could see lists too: lists and charts and columns of names and dates, a series of freehand sketch maps colour-coded with lines and arrows in those same three shades and, lastly, sheets of other names spreading over more than one page, in that sprawling configuration of trunks, branches and stems which could only denote a family tree.

Hermione, kneeling at the low table, sat back on her heels, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction.

"I know you all think I'm too thorough and, I admit, what I've found out won't be of any immediate benefit to Harry in his search, but I think it'll help us to understand what we're up against. It's like… like…" She searched for an analogy. "…like in a game of chess. It helps, doesn't it Ron, if you know something about your opponent's background, where he learned to play and so on? Makes it easier to predict what kind of strategy he might adopt, the sort of moves he might favour. Doesn't it?"

Now she put it that way… Ron shrugged acquiescence. Ginny was still looking perplexed. Hermione hastened to put her mind at ease. If anyone was going to ask tricky questions it would be Ginny.

"Oh, it was while you were getting dressed. We kind of got onto the subject of reincarnation. And it got me thinking…" Unbidden, an Identikit Machiavelli-Snape composite image pieced itself together in Hermione's mind. "- about the quest for immortality." That wasn't strictly true: it had been Snape's suggestion rather than Ron's misinformed ramblings which had inspired her latest research. Even now, she wasn't one hundred per cent convinced she was on the right track, though once she'd got going with the reading, things had started to fall into place rather beautifully. When she'd first turned up at the library she had wondered what on earth she was doing there at all. She was now sorting through the sheaves of papers and splitting them into separate piles based on a system of Granger super-logic which defied external analysis.

"_Immortality_? And You-Know-Who?" Ginny asked.

"Mm, indirectly. I've been looking into precedents for his obsession with defeating death, starting with the first documented evidence for the creation of the Philosopher's Stone. It was quite a craze amongst 'men of science' – there were loads of them at it, especially the Italians for some reason, though Flamel's the only one who ever succeeded, as far as we know."

"Oh. OK." Disappointment was elbowing the curiosity out of Ginny's voice; she had expected something more dramatic. "Him."

"Yes, Nicolas Flamel." Hermione dropped the name as casually as Desdemona's handkerchief(2), half-wishing Snape were there to applaud her diplomacy. Or perhaps he _was_ there, invisibly observing her. Increasingly, as she strove to follow up his suggestions, to deliver his messages, she found herself judging her own efforts according to whether or not her methods and results would meet with his approval. It was as though his carping, critical eye were upon her wherever she went. She felt like someone who went through the day carrying their conscience(3) on their shoulder.

"Gee-nny!" Fleur's sinuously stretching vowels purred from the kitchen. "You will 'elp me wiz ze 'erbs for ze _faisan farci_, no?"

At the mention of 'herbs' Ron's brow worked itself into fisherman's rib – knit one, pearl one, plain.(4)

"Pheasant? That's a bit posh, isn't it?" Harry couldn't imagine anyone eating pheasant apart from at Christmas – except perhaps Professor Slughorn. Ron cheered up marginally.

"Thank Fred. He had this brainwave about putting out rum-soaked raisins to catch the gnome… Next thing you know, the stupid pheasant is crashing about the yard totally blotto…"

"Isn't it closed season(5)?" Hermione queried. Could this be the reason Ron was looking so grumpy? Would he care, or even know, about this piece of Muggle bureaucracy? Perhaps he really had been looking forward to 'pan-fried socks'. Ginny stood up, annoyed at the interruption.

"Maybe not if you're French. As long as she doesn't expect me to pluck it too…"

"I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm a…"(**_6_**) 

"Ron!" His sister's warning growl shut him up fast. She flounced out to help Fleur, Harry's eyes following her to the door.

"So what's really going on?" he asked. "You're not telling me all these notes are about Philosopher's Stones. What've you done – rewritten the history of Alchemy? You said some books disappeared…?"

"I'll start at the beginning," said Hermione.

**XXX**

Nicolas Flamel, born in France in 1326 or thereabouts, lived for much of his first, Muggle, life in Paris. With his wife, Perenelle, he ran a bookshop where he bought, sold, copied and illuminated texts on behalf of more wealthy but less erudite patrons of the arts.

On her first visit to the British Library, Hermione had begun by checking Flamel's basic biographical details. Why had Snape suggested researching the ancient alchemist, she puzzled, ruminating over his motives as she perused the weighty volume. Snape never did anything without a reason. What could Muggle historians add to wizard knowledge of the subject? Surely her time would be better employed if she concentrated on the Horcruxes? She was still flustered by her Apparating fiasco, dreading at any moment a tap on the shoulder from a member of the Improper Use of Magic squad. At least she had been able to escape those sniggering children. Turning back to _'The Golden Goal: Lives of the Great Alchemists'_ she read on. So Flamel was acknowledged in the Muggle world too – that was interesting. The story went that an angel appeared to him in a dream and showed him a book in which was revealed the secret of the Philosopher's Stone. Some time later a man came to his bookshop and sold him a copy of the very book he had seen in his dream. Flamel spent the remaining twenty-one years of his life attempting to decipher the formulae encoded within the text, travelling widely in his quest for enlightenment, before 'dying' in Paris at the age of eighty-eight.

_That's what you think_, smiled Hermione. Apart from the fact that Flamel had been Dumbledore's partner at some point during the last hundred and fifty years, and that he had finally died five years ago after agreeing to the destruction of the Stone, there was not much Hermione could add to the Muggle account. But she knew she was missing something. Snape would never have sent her here to find out little more than she could have learned from a Chocolate Frog card. _'Drawn a blank, Miss Granger?' _His sneer would be unendurable. The carping conscience was preying on her mind, goading her on, defying her to take the next logical leap, speaking in Snape's voice, his tone, his accent, pitch-perfect in every sarcastic statement. If she had to have an imaginary muse, did it really have to manifest itself in the guise of Professor Snape? _'Devon is, I believe, an idyllic county. Where better to live out a peaceful, five-hundred year retirement?'_ Drat the man! It was bad enough being patronised to her face, let alone when he wasn't even there.

Flipping to the Index, Hermione ran her finger down the columns, skimming the alphabet through to F: Asclepius, Avicenna, Bacon, Boyle, Cagliostro, Demosthenes… Flamel. A bloc of page numbers; the man was frequently cited in the chapters on other men of science. She looked more closely, honing in on a cluster of consecutive references and, like a hound that has picked up a lost scent, turned eagerly to the page…

**XXX**

"So, acting on an absolute hunch, you started reading up about another completely different guy – some foreign Muggle you'd never even heard of? Are you mad or just a masochist?" Ron interrupted her narrative, his voice breaking with incredulity. If Hermione was proposing to give them a run down of every person who had ever encountered or read Flamel during the whole of his extended lifetime, then they were in for a long and tedious session.

"And what's wrong with that? I suppose you would have settled for a quick squiz at the _Ladybird Book of Alchemy_, and then beetled off to the café for a Butterbeer and a doughnut?"

"Just get on with it," sighed Harry, feeling like a referee, wishing that he had a whistle.

**XXX**

… Giambattista Della Porta, Hermione read, 1538-1615, Neapolitan polymath: scientist, physician, scholar, dramatist, wit. (_Wizard?)_ _'In his lifelong zeal to discover the mineralogical mystery of the Philosopher's Stone, Della Porta is regarded as the alchemical successor of the great Nicolas Flamel.'_ Flamel. The name cropped up repeatedly throughout the article. His writings had been the dominant influence in the development of Della Porta's experimental theories and methodology. Flamel's works were regularly quoted and credited in the various excerpts from the Neapolitan's own documents. The young Italian was graciously deferential to his French forebear.

Forebear? Hermione reached for the communication cord to halt that train of thought. Forebear implied ancestry, a family connection. What was she thinking? This was all Ginny's fault, and Ron's - all that rubbish about reincarnation. There was no evidence that Della Porta had done any more than study Flamel's findings. That did **not**, she lectured herself severely (in her own voice this time, not Snape's) make the two men acquainted, related or – and here her mind leapt ahead of logic - _identical_.

But what if…? Didn't science start with a theory and aim to establish a proof? What if Flamel had travelled to Italy? It wasn't as though he hadn't had the time. He'd had centuries. What if he had been drawn to the intellectual hotbeds of the Renaissance? Or to the Italian opera? Wasn't opera one of his hobbies? What if he had _met_ Della Porta? That was quite possible. They didn't have to be the same man. Or what if they were? What if Flamel had passed himself off as the Italian academic? After his Muggle 'death' in 1414, he must have gone somewhere and adopted an identity. After living for so many years as a Muggle, wouldn't it have been natural to wish to maintain some contact with the Muggle world?

Hermione began to speed-read the chapter. She was searching for any reference to a long-suffering and dutiful wife who might have taken on the mantle of Perenelle, or for any anomalies which might connect Della Porta with magic. After all, the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy didn't go into effect until 1692. Flamel, Della Porta – either or both of them, in whichever incarnation you please – would have been under no obligation to conceal their magical powers.

Several pages later, Hermione was beginning to regret not bringing a Quick-quill when her hand stopped scribbling, arrested by the impact of the latest, hastily copied sentence: _'…his work in optics and other fields was undermined by his credulous preoccupation with magic.'_ It was like the door to a confessional. Telling phrases hurled themselves at her as she skimmed the paragraphs, seizing their chance to come out and come clean: _'a master of occult philosophy'_; _'his preternatural pursuit of the abstruse arts of alchemy, astronomy and astrology'_; _'suspected of dabbling in demonology'_. Hermione wrote them all down. DP (she had abbreviated his name for convenience) founded a secret society, the _'Academia secretorum naturae'_ (Academy of Natural Secrets) only to have it disallowed and disbanded by the Inquisition, while he himself escaped with a Caution; his works of cryptographic exegesis were denounced as encoded anti-Christian curses. Equally suspect was his horticultural hobby, _'the collection of rare botanical specimens and the cultivation of exotic plants…'_ I bet, she thought. Alihotsy, Mandrake, Bubotubers…

In 1558 Giambattista Della Porta published his vast twenty volume masterpiece, _'Natural Magic'_…

Realising that her hands were sweating and that her grip on the corner of the page had left it dog-eared, with a damp thumb-print, Hermione sat up straight, flexing her shoulders, and took several slow breaths to get her runaway logic back on the rails. Where was the proof? The hypothesis – that DP was a friend of Flamel _and_ a wizard to boot – was speculative, the argument a woolly-minded web of wishful thinking. Was this the 'connection' Snape had intended her to find? He'd expect her research to be more rigorous than a series of academic and geographic coincidences. She could imagine his reaction to any theory of shared identity.

'A flimsy fabrication, Miss Granger," he'd say. "Far-fetched, fanciful and fallacious."

(Ron might come up with a couple of 'F' words too, only one of which would be 'freaky'.) A second opinion, however, would have been welcome, even one as disparaging as Snape's. Hermione needed reassurance that she hadn't set off down an intellectual cul-de-sac. How would Snape approach the problem? No doubt he would dismiss her 'connections' as circumstantial and irrelevant. Even so, Hermione found herself wishing that he were here. His sarcasm would be a deflationary foil to her more lofty flights of fancy. How incongruous he would look here in the British Library, his tall, theatrical figure striding up the stairwells, billowing amongst the bookshelves (here her mind's eye lapsed into alliterative caricature), a dark, dynamic cloaked crusader, rushing to rescue her from the clutches of conjecture…

**XXX**

"What's so funny?" demanded Ron. Hermione surfaced from the memory still smiling.

"Somebody's slipped her one of your brothers' Patented Daydream Charms," teased Harry.

"And we know who she'll be dreaming about," growled Ron in a herbal undertone. He eyed the heaped notes on the table, horribly aware that there were several piles Hermione had not referred to yet.

"Let me get this straight." Harry was grappling with the information. "You're saying that Flamel and this Porta chap were-?"

"I think they _met_." Hermione answered his unfinished question. "I don't think we can go any further than that. The facts don't support any more definite conclusion. I personally don't buy the 'new identity' idea - I threw that in for the sake of argument. Why would Porta devote a lifetime to searching for something he'd already discovered a hundred years earlier? It would be a waste of time." Pretending she hadn't heard Ron's muttered, 'That's not the only waste of time,' she concentrated on Harry. "The funny thing is, Porta's writings include quotations that I haven't been able to verify in any of Flamel's work – the ones I've been able to get hold of so far. So where did Porta hear them – from the horse's mouth?"

"And you think he was a wizard?"

Hermione nodded vigorously.

"It does look likely, don't you think? Not necessarily a very good wizard, though I do wonder whether he Obliviated the Inquisition. How else could he have persuaded them to turn a blind eye to all those treatises on demonology and the occult? And all that travelling! Oh, didn't I mention that? Well, he really got around, did our Giambattista: Italy, France, Spain – you name it, he's been there. Bruno was even worse."

"Bruno?"(7) Harry, ignoring the sight of his freckled friend's eyebrows disappearing in anguish into his hairline, supplied the requisite prompt.

"Gosh yes, he went all over. More places than Johnny Cash.(8)"

"Who? Not another Italian?"

Hermione made rapid allowances – it wasn't the boys' fault. They didn't have to listen to her dad's tuneless, lathery, Home Counties paraphrase of _'I've Been Everywhere'_ issuing from the bathroom every morning.

"Nobody. It doesn't matter."

She consulted one of her many highlighted sheets. "There are references to Bruno's being in Naples, Rome, Geneva, Toulouse, Oxford, Paris, Wittenberg, Frankfurt, Padua, Venice…" Recognising her friends' glazed expression from history lessons with Professor Binns, Hermione cut short the list. "If you consider how fraught with danger travelling was for ordinary Muggles at the time - When? Um, the end of the 16th century. He died in 1600." She paused for effect. "He was burned at the stake."

"Crikey!" As the genre moved from historical documentary to action drama, Ron perked up.

"So this Bruno geezer was a wizard too? Or one of those poor innocents who got victimised by the Inquisition?"

Again, Hermione had no hard evidence. Dragging the box-file across the table towards her, she sprang the clamp and pulled out another wad of notes. Ron abbreviated his groan into an unconvincing hiccough.

"I'm sorry if I'm boring you, Ronald, but I happen to believe this is important. If you're not interested, perhaps you'd rather go outside and practise something more useful – long distance spitting, or toe-nail tiddly-winks, or whatever it is you do to amuse yourself. I'm sure Harry wants to hear this."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely," enthused Harry, not daring to disagree. "But maybe you could _summarise_ a bit."

"Like we don't need his wand number, his Patronus and the name of his grandmother's house elf," Ron sulked.

Summarise? Hermione recalled the hours of meticulous research: the cross-referenced lists of travel dates and destinations, names of family, friends, associates, patrons, enemies, lifelines, publications, source material, overlaps, quotations and concordances… Summarise? What did they think she'd been doing?

"Fine. In a nutshell then. Bruno experimented with Horcruxes."

**"What!"**

Ah, she thought that would grab their attention. Yet another unsubstantiated claim. This particular flight of fancy had left the stratosphere. Hermione wetted her lips, her mouth dry from the sudden lack of oxygen.

"But, if you're not interested…" She began to draw her papers together, enjoying her power, prolonging the anticipation.

"Whoa, wait, we didn't say that. Please, go on. We've got to hear this." With a swift kick under the table Harry obliterated any of Ron's remaining objections. Hermione, mollified, needed little encouragement.

"Bruno and Della Porta both lived in Naples at roughly the same time - OK? - give or take a few years. In those days it wouldn't have been a massive city like it is now – it probably wasn't all that much bigger than Hogsmeade, especially if you narrow down their social circle to just the educated class. I'd say it's almost certain that they knew each other: both scientists, both interested in alchemy and magic - what are the odds?

"While Porta managed to stay on the right side of the Inquisition, Bruno spent most of his life trying to keep one step ahead of them. Hence, I suspect, a lot of his travelling. He was supposedly a holy man – he'd been ordained as a Dominican Friar – but his beliefs were decidedly dodgy. He was on the wrong side of that whole debate about Copernicus… You know, that argument about whether the earth or the sun is the centre of the universe. Well, it was the wrong side according to the establishment, anyway. If that wasn't enough to queer his pitch with the religious zealots, his speciality was mnemonics – memory techniques. Actually, I could look into that a bit more – there might be something that could help Neville…"

"Fuckwit," muttered Ron, before Harry could stop him. "Pathetic prick."

"Pardon?" Not connecting her friendly, well-meant aside with anything that might have provoked Ron's growl, Hermione glanced up from her notes to catch the boys locked in a silent scuffle. "Oh, _come on_, guys!"

"Sorry. We're listening," Harry apologised. "It's just that Ron's… er, Ron's _pricked_ his finger on his, um, broomstick, and got a splinter and I was telling him to _suck it_…"

"Well, as I was saying…" Hermione refused to demean herself by showing interest in anything so trivial. If they didn't want to tell her what was going on, that was their own silly business. Boys! "Mnemonics. That branch of science was regarded as subversive too. Nobody understood it, you see. Several of Bruno's books were suspected of being disguised Hermetic tracts. In fact, after his death, all his books were banned. They were put on the _'Index Librorum Prohibitorum'(_9.

"All his life Bruno faced accusations of practising magic and sorcery. If he was a wizard, he wasn't very discreet about it. Then, later on, it seems he was working on experiments concerning the nature of the _spirit_. Some critics have interpreted that as a belief in reincarnation…"

"See? What did I tell you?" Ron's smugness was less than endearing.

"But reincarnation and Horcruxes are two very different things," objected Harry. "We've already had that discussion. Are you saying he actually topped people and split his soul?"

"A prototype Riddle? I don't know if he went that far." Hermione was gratified to see that Harry, at least, was now taking her seriously. Flushed and animated, she pushed up her sleeves – all this talking was making her hot. "But I do think he did some of the groundwork for the spells. Obviously, he wasn't going to let the Muggles know what he was up to. He published his theories about souls in a document called _'The Transport of Intrepid Souls'_. From what I've seen of the transcript, it is rather bland stuff. At a guess, I'd say it's a cover for the real work he was doing in secret. A couple of his other books sound far more promising, but I haven't been able to get hold of copies -"

"_Flourish and Blotts_ let you down?"

"In libraries – you know, Ron, those big, quiet buildings where books are kept? – you can submit special requests to view rare manuscripts. Serious scholars do it all the time." Hermione found his sniping tiresome and infantile.

"I'll be perfectly honest, I haven't a shred of _proof_ to link Bruno with Horcruxes, but there was definitely something very fishy going on. By all accounts he was a controversial character. Apart from getting himself excommunicated more than once – I didn't think that was possible, did you? – for a time he worked as a spy in the French Embassy. I've got a note somewhere – oh, never mind, I'll find it later. It says something to the effect that he used to hear confessions – remember I told you he was a priest? – and then use the information to have people condemned under the persecutory laws."

"What a swine!"

"And, listen to this: _'The precise charges of heresy on which Bruno was condemned are unknown, as the official record has long been lost.' _Rather convenient, eh? **And** there's another thing. There was an attempt not so long ago – during the papacy of John Paul II, actually – to get a 'rehabilitation' for Bruno from the Catholic authorities, but it was rejected. One of the reasons stated was that he had _'brought about the deaths of Roman Catholics'_.

"So, if he was that unscrupulous in his Muggle life, what might he have got up to as a wizard?" Slightly breathless, Hermione peered anxiously at her friends. Had she persuaded them, without playing her trump card? Possibly not; Harry was frowning.

"You can't go accusing people of dealing in Dark magic just because they're nasty bastards. You might as well start your own Inquisition."

It was one of the things that Hermione had always liked about Harry – he had a sense of fair play. Even if it occasionally backfired, it was better, she reasoned, to have one guilty Pettigrew on the loose than an innocent Black condemned to death. If only Harry could be as rational about Snape.

"Remember I said that when I got to the library, they hauled me in for questioning because two of the texts I had requested had disappeared? They thought it was suspicious; wanted to know if I knew anything about it."

"And did you?"

"What? No, of course not. I was surprised as they were. It seems they normally keep a record of any books that go missing, but there was no record of any theft."

"Oh, spit it out, Hermione. I can see you're dying to tell us. What were these books?" Harry could sense that her alchemical anecdotes were about to deliver gold. The tremor in Hermione's voice sent chills down his back.

"They were translations of two documents by Bruno which he wrote shortly before his execution. _'Animarum venator' (Hunter of Souls)_ and _'Animarum spoliator' (Corruptor of Souls)(__10)_ They hadn't been accessed for a long time – years and years. The librarian thought the files might have been lost or damaged – because of the War, you know. Oh, for goodness' sake, Ron. The _Second _World War. She had to go right back into archive data before she could find the last time anyone had asked to view them."

"And that was when?" Harry had already guessed the answer, but he needed to hear Hermione say it, to make the fourth connection: Flamel, Della Porta, Bruno and…

"They were requisitioned in 1943 by a Mr T.M. Riddle."

**End of Chapter.**

**_Please_ leave a comment - I can't have done all that research for nothing!**

1 Newton. The pose of the bronze statue of Newton by Sir Eduardo Paolozzi is based on William's Blake's famous image of him leaning forward to plot with a pair of dividers the immensity of the universe.

2 Desdemona's handkerchief. Deliberately dropped by Iago as part of his plan to entrap Othello.

3 'She felt like… on their shoulder'. A quote from Truly Madly Deeply, with the substitution of 'conscience' for 'loved one'.

4 Fisherman's rib: a knitting pattern which produces well-defined ridges

5 Closed season for pheasant shooting: February - October

6 pheasant plucker… I'm assuming you all know the tongue-twister!

7 Giordano Bruno 1548 -1600

8 Johnny Cash. 'I've Been Everywhere' was a UK Muggle hit in 1996. The original 1959 song, sung by Lucky Starr, actually listed Australian towns.

9 Index Librorum Prohibitorum: Index of Forbidden Books set up by the Inquisition. Bruno's oeuvre was added to the list in 1603.

10 _Animarum spoliator (Corruptor of Souls)._ Of all the works quoted in this chapter, this is the only one I have invented. Places, names and biographical data are taken from historical sources. Go figure!

Obviously I cannot claim that Della Porta and Bruno were wizards _in real life_ – but they are easily as magical as Nicolas Flamel!

**Next chapter: TRAITORS AND TURNCOATS. We return to Hogwarts where McGonagall is finding the duties of headmistress very taxing. And there will be more Snape soon. And Neville.**


	7. Traitors and Turncoats

**NEW PERSPECTIVE 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters are the property of JKR, her publishers etc.**

**A/N: Many thanks for the feedback on the previous chapter – it's great to know that you really are out there reading this.**

**Thanks as always to Duj and Cecelle for looking this over for me – though it's so long ago they've probably forgotten!**

**The story: We now move from Hermione to McGonagall. This is a long and thoughtful chapter, but I thought we should get a chance to see things from Minerva's pov. It will be helpful later if we understand her attitude when Hermione approaches her about Snape.**

**Chapter 7:TRAITORS AND TURNCOATS**

"Something beginning with…" The battered brim wrinkled into a grinning upward crease and the Sorting Hat paused, prolonging the suspense. The mischievous, medieval quizmaster swivelled on its shelf, shuffling round towards each of the portraits in turn, compelling their attention like a pointed, leathery Yoda. "Something beginning with 'T'," it declared with the authoritative solemnity of a riddling Sphinx.

"How many letters?" asked Dilys Derwent promptly. "Seven? Let me see now. Tourniquet? No, silly me, too long. Trepan? No, that's only six. Oh dear. Tertian fever? Tetanus? Therapy? Tantrum? Typhoid?" Tapering, dainty fingers counted out the letters. "Are you playing, Fusty? Any ideas?" she called to her corpulent colleague hanging opposite her on the far side of the circular room. Sir Fustian Fortescue often needed a little encouragement. As a hereditary member of the landed wizardry, he owed his status to blood connections rather than academic brilliance. He was all too conscious that his inclusion in the ranks of Hogwarts' headmasters was an accident of birth rather than the result of any intellectual achievement on his part.

"'Pon my word, that's a teaser, and no mistake," he blustered, stalling for thinking time. "Turnip? Talbot? Once had a dog named Talbot, ye know. Huge white hound he was. Fine huntin' beast. 'Botty' we used to call him, or, er, beggin' your pardon ma'am, 'Tall-Boy'… Eh, there's a word for you, my dear. Tallboy!" he suggested, flushing as ruddy as his magnificent, whiskery sideburns.

This was not the word the Hat was seeking. Fortescue put all his effort into a second gallant attempt.

"Tillage? Tankard? Tallyho?"

"But what's the clue? Isn't there a clue?" Armando Dippet fussed.

"Torture." Phineas Nigellus' contribution was curt. Stiff-backed and severe, he maintained his sitter's pose, staring fixedly down his long nose and out of his frame as at the long dead portrait artist, not deigning to engage fully in the game. "Tonsure," he sniped. "Why not ask the monk?"

From the imponderable shadows of the niche on the other side of the mahogany scroll-footed bookcase came a low, Latinate intoning.

"Illud in his rebus vereor… quia ursus pauxilli cerebri erat… traxitque per ossa furorem… Taedium vitae…"(1)

"I don't think Everard wishes to participate," Dilys whispered. "Tension? Tetanus? Any more, Fustian?"

"Tourney? By Merlin, I do miss a good tourney. This new-fangled Tri-Wizard's not a patch on what it was in my day. Dragon-slaying ain't what it used to be."

"Are proper nouns admissible? What's the ruling on hyphenation and foreign words?" Dippet quibbled.

"Tedious!"

"Phineas, I do think you might enter more fully into the _spirit_ of things," Dilys reproached him. The silvery ringlets rippled as she shook her head.

"I'm a portrait, not a dashed _ghost_," Nigellus retorted.

"Oh, for goodness sake! Please! I can't hear myself think!" Minerva McGonagall smacked the letter she was holding down onto the desk.

"Grace me with your steely, Scottish gaze, madam, and I'll _tell_ you what you're thinking," offered Nigellus, Slytherin civility falling marginally short of a sneer.

How had Dumbledore ever managed to get any work done with this constant background babble? It was worse than a class of squabbling first years. Minerva wished she could quiet them with a sharp 'ting' of spoon on glass, or surprise them into silence by an unexpected transfiguration. It was a sad fact that the frame-bound brainpower of Hogwarts' historic elite simply did not have enough to do. Parlour games indeed!

"Did somebody mention tea?" inquired Albus, waking from a doze.

Blotting out the persistent buzz of increasingly improbable 'T' words ("Treacle toffee?" suggested Dumbledore), McGonagall forced her shredded concentration back to the pile of application letters. Trouble-makers, time-wasters, tatterdemalions… theorists, tacticians, thinkers… tongue-tied trainees, trembling tyros… Tomfools, twits and twerps… and not a _teacher_ amongst them! What next – _trolls_? With a single, straight stroke she scratched the penultimate name from her list and, through force of habit, replaced her quill neatly on its rest, before venting a heart-felt snort of frustration.

"Interviews not going well?" Dilys Derwent, having drawn another blank with 'Trachea', offered sisterly sympathy.

"No, they are not. Not at all. How Albus endured this cheerless process for over forty years is beyond my ken."

Thanks to last term's more than usually dramatic events, a teaching post at Hogwarts no longer held the cachet it once had. The selection of applicants was, in McGonagall's strictly considered opinion, pitiful: she hadn't spoken yet to any potential tutor who was not either incompetent, unqualified or otherwise unsuitable for the job. Recruiting a replacement Defence professor had become an annual exercise with which Dumbledore had coped with mixed success. This year the problem was doubled, compounded by Minerva's own unanticipated promotion to Headmistress, which left a vacancy in Transfiguration. Her new responsibilities might allow her to teach the occasional class, but no more than that. It could not be a full time commitment. Thank you, Albus, she thought dourly, for well and truly landing me in the soup - Boggart broth, I think.

"Anything I can do, dear lady?" Sir Fustian's chivalrous instincts came to the fore. "I am eternally at your service. One isn't wholly without connections, ye know. I'll spread the word. Wouldn't want to be indiscreet or anything, but my miniatures still grace the mantels of… ahem. 'Nuff said, eh what!"

"Double the pay and be done with it." A typically Slytherin solution. Minerva, mentally wiping out Phineas' sarcastic smile with a turpentine swab, eyed him frostily.

"I could _quadruple_ the remuneration, and it would make no difference. It's communication that's the problem. With the owls out of action… It's not as though I haven't advertised."

A quarter page display ad had appeared in several consecutive issues of _The_ _Daily Prophet_, plus an ongoing classified entry in the Sits Vacant column, but had yielded a disappointing response – poor in both quality and quantity. The continuing suspension of the owl service had exacerbated the difficulties. (And when was anyone going to offer a satisfactory explanation for that?) Regular distribution of the newspaper had been disrupted; applications and enquiries were slow to arrive, as were the school's replies; interviews were inconvenient to arrange.

"If it's owls you want, why not Transfigure a few?" Fortescue saw no obstacles.

"It's not that easy." Minerva hadn't intended to be sharp with Sir Fustian, but today she had little patience with his bluff simplicity. Chastened, he shouldered a Muggle blunderbuss and retired from the picture. On occasions such as this, Minerva knew, he retreated to a landscape of duck-shooting on the Lincolnshire wolds, which hung in the corridor approaching the Hufflepuff common room. She had noticed him there once, striding amongst the reeds, gun in hand, wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his forehead, jumping from tussock to tussock, a spaniel at heel, every inch the country gent.

The idea of Transfiguration had already occurred to McGonagall. Yet, Transfiguring owls for delivery purposes had not proved a viable solution – the transfigured birds possessed neither the sense of direction nor the homing instinct of their natural counterparts. They were of use only for internal Hogwarts mail – not that there was any great demand for this while the Floo was in operation – or for messages to and from Hogsmeade, where there was little chance of them getting lost. _Where_, McGonagall would very much like to know, had the ever-enterprising Miss Granger managed to lay her hands on a perfectly healthy Barn Owl?

The next envelope bore a Ministry seal. McGonagall snapped it open perfunctorily, disowning the tremor in her fingers. For weeks now she had daily anticipated a letter of dismissal, nominating her replacement.

"Tripe!" she exclaimed in disbelief. "Trumped-up twaddle!"

"Hmm?" Abandoning their guessing game, the portraits embraced a new source of amusement.

"Oh, you'll love this! This is all I need." McGonagall addressed them as a group. "Listen. _'In recognition of the time during which our esteemed colleague, Dolores Umbridge, occupied the position of Head-teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it is proposed that her portrait be hung amongst those of other alumni in the principal's office…' _Over my dead body!Hung? I'd like to see her hang!"

"Out of the question!"

"That toad-faced termagant!"

"Shrewd stratagem."

"_You_ may consider it shrewd, Phineas, but I, for one, have no intention of giving wall space to that simpering, sententious, supercilious _spy_." McGonagall tensed as a familiar palpitation fluttered in her chest. She couldn't think about Umbridge without reliving the sickening impact of those four Stunners, fired at point-blank range. The recollection left her momentarily winded. "Well, I think that is one letter that failed to reach its destination. Lost in the post." She tore the page deliberately from top to bottom, letting the two halves drop to the floor before despatching them with a disdainful 'Evanesco!' It was merely postponing the problem, she knew; the Ministry would write again.

"Quite right too. It's no place for a woman." Phineas' opinions on the role of witches were as enlightened as his views on blood status. The feminist hackles of Dilys and Minerva rose in unison.

"I beg your pardon? Have you forgotten the Founders?" Dilys remonstrated. "And may I remind you, Sir, that I myself led this school for twenty-seven years?"

"And a fine mess you made of it. You and that tickety-boo twit Fortescue. Took me all my time to sort out the shambles you left behind."

"Well, if that's your attitude, I think I have more important business to attend to at St Mungo's. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." Dilys withdrew, her agitation betrayed only by the rapid use of her fan. It was not her style to be confrontational.

Seething, Minerva removed her spectacles, giving them a huff and then a fierce polish on the sleeve of her robe. Loath as she was to leave such a challenge uncontested, she really did not have time for this. She would have to see about curtaining Nigellus off, like Mrs Black at Grimmauld Place; or perhaps she could throw a cloth over the frame and shut him up that way, like a parrot in a cage. Dippet was all but wringing his hands, his eyes darting from the headmistress to Nigellus and back, and then imploringly at Dumbledore who had nodded off again.

"We shall have to agree to differ. And I would thank you to keep such sentiments to yourself in future," she said primly, following Dilys' example in refusing to argue. Phineas was, after all, just a portrait. They were all just portraits. Their lives were two dimensional.

"No job for a woman." Nigellus always had to have the last word.

Gritting her teeth, Minerva ignored him.

**xxx**

Hermione's note had intrigued McGonagall. However busy she was, she would make time to see the girl. Apart from anything else, she could ask her about that owl. What new crisis could have precipitated that urgent little message? What in the child's life could be so crucial as to make her request a meeting with her Headmistress during the school holidays? It was far too late to alter her options for NEWTs. What was the betting it had something to do with Harry Potter? McGonagall repressed a tic of annoyance. Trust that boy to complicate the issue. Not return to Hogwarts? Once that rumour got around it might start an avalanche of absences. How in Merlin's name was she to respect Albus' wishes and watch over the Potter boy if he was no longer a student at the school?

Perhaps Miss Granger had persuaded her friend to reconsider. Or was the girl approaching her on behalf of her boyfriend? So dreadful about Molly. Those poor Weasley children. An unruly rabble, but from a good-natured, right-thinking family. All except that priggish Percy. Bright boy, but absolutely no charm; never popular with the other students. How he had ever been selected as Head Boy she would never know. Another of Albus' less inspired choices. Oh dear – the nomination of Head Boy and Head Girl, and the new prefects – more decisions to be taken before the start of term… The notifications should have been sent out already. Yes, she would definitely have to quiz Hermione about that owl. There was a limit as to how many errands the house elves could be expected to run. When was the girl due to arrive?

McGonagall tapped out a finger-nail gallop on the desk in vexation. Staff problems, communication problems - since her appointment in June, all she had encountered were problems. The last two months had been appalling: an endless series of meetings. Meetings with fearful and distraught members of staff, at which she, as the new figurehead, was expected to provide reassurance and consolation, while herself still shell-shocked at the traumatic loss of her dear friend. Trelawney, that shrieking siren of doom, had been predictably hysterical. Hagrid hadn't been much better – soft as a sporran, that man. The description 'big softie' might have been coined just for him. By and large, though, she had a stalwart team: Flitwick, Sprout, Vector, Sinistra and the rest – all capable, dependable teachers. She could count on their support. As for Slughorn… McGonagall realised only too well that the pot-bellied Potions master's first loyalty was to himself and not the school.

In her immediate assumption of leadership, she had merely done her deputy's duty; she had plugged the breach. It was not a role she would have sought. Her strengths, she knew, lay in her talent for transfiguration and her dedication to teaching; she lacked the patience, diplomacy or connivance to play politics with the educational authorities. Her brand of straight-backed sincerity was a weak substitute for Albus' wisdom or charisma. For all her outward severity, she was sensitive to this flaw. A model of efficiency and formal propriety, she was equipped with neither the magical reputation, intellectual gravitas nor approachable congeniality of her affable, adaptable predecessor.

Prickles of resentment had worked their way through the close-woven plaid of her composure, a constant irritation and reminder of her predicament. McGonagall flattered herself that she had proved herself a worthy successor to Dumbledore in the classroom. Could she be as worthy an administrator? The constant, almost daily meetings with unhelpful Ministry official, censorious Governors and panicked parents were a severe trial. Dumbledore, it had often seemed to her, used to derive some perverse amusement from such confrontations; to her they were nothing more than counterproductive interruptions to her already over-burdened schedule, and a source of no interest or pleasure.

When she wasn't in meetings, she either had her head in a Floo, or was Apparating round the country on a combined PR exercise and staff recruitment drive for the school. Personal contacts and word of mouth had elicited goodwill and sympathy, but little in the way of potential employees. With each passing day the situation became more grave as the start of the new term approached. The Governors, still vacillating, might at any time reverse their reluctant decision to keep the school open. September was only a fortnight away. Ministry intervention looked increasingly probable, if not inevitable. Those insufferable goons at the Ministry were twitching to interfere. McGonagall's lips pursed afresh at the memory of the last time the Ministry had seen fit to take a hand in the school's affairs. The Umbridge regime would be condemned for all time as Hogwarts' nadir, unless… Could it be that McGonagall's own contribution would drag the school even lower – that her first decisive action as headmistress and her enduring legacy to Hogwarts would be to enforce its closure?

How could Dumbledore have let it come to this? What had Albus been thinking? Not for the first time the critical thought crept under the barriers of affection and loyalty into McGonagall's mind. How could he have been so irresponsible? To sneak a student out of Hogwarts on a secret and, as it proved, fatally dangerous mission, leaving the safety of the school in the hands of herself and a couple of Auror reinforcements? To allow another student, whom, it seems, he actively suspected was plotting to kill him, to continue to hatch his sickening schemes, unchecked and under the supervision of that snake-in-the-grass Snape? Had age and optimism dulled his judgement?

Over the years there had been more than one occasion on which she had privately questioned the headmaster's decisions – more frequently in recent times. Charitable forgiveness was all very well, but Albus' trusting belief in the inner integrity of his students could be downright naïve. Some of them were little monsters. Some of them didn't deserve second chances. And some of them did. Remus, for instance. Where would he be now if Dumbledore had not used his discretion to bend the rules and admit the boy to Hogwarts? At the time it had struck her as a generous but potentially unwise move. She had deplored the secrecy involved, feared for the safety of his classmates, but the werewolf had been a good and able student, grateful too – a little wild, perhaps, on occasions – there had been that regrettable incident in the Shack… and again, in the same place three years ago. What was it about that Shack – it seemed to bring out the worst in the man? The whole place was unsafe, overdue for demolition – if she had more time she might try to get something done about it… Where was she? Oh, yes, Lupin: he had grown into a responsible adult, hadn't he?

Lupin's appointment as Defence professor had again been a cause of concern – was it right to put the needs of the individual above the welfare of the school? – but once more Albus had allayed her doubts. It was impossible not to yield to that gentle sagacity, not to feel fortified by his faith in human nature. It was a power he had, a knack, a skill, of winning an argument with a soft touch of the blarney and a bright blue twinkle. How she missed that twinkle. Dear, misguided, trusting, foolish Albus! She could go on – he had been accused of partiality, of favouring the Gryffindors over the other houses, of being lax and inconsistent in his discipline, of being unduly secretive… Take Tom Riddle as a prime example. McGonagall was positive that Albus had, all along, known more about that wicked boy's background than he let on. At what stage had he begun to suspect that the child might be capable of more than the odd retaliatory hex? Had he been aware of latent evil, but hoped the boy to be redeemable? Or had Riddle deceived Dumbledore too, just as he had duped them all?

Straining her memory back to her own schooldays, McGonagall was ashamed to admit that she could barely recall the schoolboy Riddle, two years her junior. So much for feminine intuition. Shouldn't she have realised he was a bad lot? Even when he had been thrust, briefly, into the limelight in her final year, after that unpleasant incident over Myrtle and the basilisk, when Riddle had been honoured with a trophy for helping to incriminate ('frame' as it transpired) Hagrid, she had been too immersed in her impending NEWTs to take much notice of the young Slytherin. He had seemed pleasant enough.

Unlike Severus Snape, who had never made the slightest effort to ingratiate himself. Snape! The thought of that man's duplicity still stung like wormwood in a wound. McGonagall had allocated him a teaching category all of his own: traitors, turncoats and tergiversators. She had never liked the man. It wasn't just that he was unlikeable; he hadn't _wanted_ to be liked. It galled her to admit, however, that over the years he had earned her professional respect. The results he wrung from his students had been consistently good; he had undeniably been a competent, conscientious, uncompromising teacher, an able housemaster. Harsh methods, honourable motives – so she had believed. She herself was all in favour of firm discipline; one had to wield an unwavering wand.

Who would have thought it would end this way? That the scrawny, silent child – McGonagall could remember Snape from his early days at Hogwarts – the lanky, unprepossessing teenager, would become one of the most feared and effective members of staff, and then… Merlin! They had been nurturing a viper in their midst. Very early on she had revised her first impressions of Snape, from shy to sly, from introverted to independent. If asked, all those years ago, McGonagall would have predicted that the sullen, solitary boy might become a poet or an apothecary, not a professor, and certainly not an assassin. Though even as a child, he had always had a vicious temper – she had seen it lurking behind the angry scowls, suppressed into tight, white fists; she had pitied his enemies even then.

It is the quiet, intelligent, highly-strung ones you have to keep your eye on – Snape had been no exception. Never a trouble-maker as such – he'd been too clever to get caught – but not a popular child; McGonagall had detected a simmering animosity between the young Slytherin and some of his classmates. His name had cropped up more than once when she was obliged to discipline members of her own house, Potter and Black in particular. But the odd skirmish or two was only to be expected: magic and testosterone was a volatile combination. On several occasions she had entertained suspicions of bullying, but the child had never complained, at least not to her. In any case, she doubted very much whether he would have been a passive victim. Perhaps he had taken grievances to Slughorn, his Head of House, or to Albus. Was this where the old wizard had laid the foundations for that later unshakable, unexplained trust?

Despite his excellent NEWT results, McGonagall's leaving reference for Snape had not been without reservations. Unlike Horace, who could not sing the boy's praises too highly, she had sometimes questioned Snape's commitment to Transfiguration. It had not been his best subject. He had difficulty, if she remembered correctly, in sustaining a transfiguration for any longer than the minimum amount of time required to prove that he was capable of the spell. The process, the _art_ of Transfiguration never seemed to give him any satisfaction. Looking back now, McGonagall found that surprising: his talent and temperament should have been aptly suited to a subject that facilitated disguise and dissimulation.

Edgy with adolescent dissatisfaction, that angry negative energy that drives revolutions(2), and with the energy and ambition to make things happen, at the age of eighteen Snape had left Hogwarts without a backward glance. He had shown nothing but contempt for the institution which had shaped his life, fostered his talents and been his home for seven years. McGonagall, by then resigned to his shady association with Lucius Malfoy and his Slytherin contacts, had not expected to see him again, unless it were in the pages of _The_ _Daily Prophet_, arrested on charges of collaboration with Dark forces. She had written him off as a lost sheep, a black sheep.

When, three years later, Dumbledore had welcomed him back into the Hogwarts' fold as a member of staff, Snape had changed. For a long while McGonagall had not been able to put her finger on what was different; the man was as coldly aloof, rude and self-sufficient as he ever had been. There was a wariness about him, a kind of hollowness. She suspected some irreparable hurt – a failed romance, perhaps. Only later did she attribute it to the absence of that raw ambition, the death of idealism. His pride had not survived the run-in with the Wizengamot; he resented being beholden to Dumbledore for his release. Or so she had thought then. But now, she could see it for what it really was: treachery and deceit.

When Snape had joined the staff, McGonagall had initially been prepared to be hospitable, to ease the transition from pupil to teacher, aware that his relative youth and inexperience would be extra obstacles to overcome. Though hardly maternal by nature, she would have taken the young man under her wing, and given him the benefit of her advice and experience. Yet her friendly overtures had been coolly but firmly declined. He had made it clear from the outset that he wished his relationship with his colleagues to remain impersonal, and they had respected his privacy. Whatever the level of her professional regard for the potions master, McGonagall's personal rapport with Snape had never warmed to anything beyond mutual civility. How can one share a table with someone for sixteen years and not get to know them? In that time McGonagall had seen Snape in many moods and many situations: fanatically absorbed with his potions; exasperated, intimidating and angry with misbehaving pupils, some might say threatening (though he had never, to her knowledge, laid a finger on any of them); animated, enthusiastic, even triumphant over his House team's success in a match – the man knew his Quidditch… She had seen him over-worked and tired, in the dungeons at midnight marking essays before a late stint on corridor duty; she had, occasionally, seen him unwell but stoically uncomplaining, unflagging in his dedication to his students and his subject; she had seen his courage and cunning in his work for the Order. She had thought she had his measure.

And yet he had hoodwinked her too. For years. _Was she really so gullible?_ A small, white feather drifted lazily through the still air of the office and settled on the desk in front of her. McGonagall let her eyes rest on the delicate scrap in sightless contemplation. _Was her intuition so fallible?_ From their perch on the curtain rod a dozen miniature seagulls, plump and white against the forest green drapes like a row of mistletoe berries amongst the leaves, regarded her with mute, beady insolence. The last interviewee had seen fit, in an ostentatious display of his powers, to transfigure the contents of her in-tray into a flock of raucous, keening gulls. After the reflex _Silencio!_, McGonagall had rather forgotten about them, as she curtly explained to the preening candidate that several of her NEWTs class had already achieved this standard, and was this really the _best_ he could do? Now, with an irritable twitch of her wand, she restored the curtains to her preferred tartan and Untransfigured the birds. Twelve mercifully silent sheets of paper fluttered back to the desk.

How many more star pupils had conned their way through their school careers and bamboozled her into giving them impeccable references, when all the time they were nothing but hornswoggling reprobates? No, she couldn't permit herself to think that way. She might as well suspect the exemplary Miss Granger of leading a mysterious double life. Next, people would be trying to tell her that James Potter and his high-spirited friends were really a gang of hoodlums. Pettigrew? Och, well, appearances had been distressingly deceptive there. It just goes to show…

And now Draco Malfoy. Not that his defection came as any great shock - he was his father's son; you don't pluck eider-down from a thistle. Right from his Sorting she'd had Malfoy pegged as spoilt, arrogant and ambitious; manipulative but not a killer. No, most certainly not. The boy was too weak, too gutless. McGonagall had shared Albus' hope that, away from the pernicious influence of his family, Draco would find more honourable role models; that he might reflect on the disgrace of his father, aunt and uncle, and reject the lure of Dark magic. But under the insidious tutelage of a housemaster such as Snape, the boy wouldn't have stood a chance. For all she knew, Lucius might have had Snape on a retainer to give his son private coaching in the Dark Arts. She wouldn't put it past either of them.

Cre-ea-ack! McGonagall looked up from her reverie to see one of the house elf 'messengers' sidling towards her, a battered scroll in his sinewy hand. From the corner of his mouth drooped a small clay pipe on which he was puffing so vigorously that it was difficult to distinguish words in between the drags.

"Got yer anuvver" (puff) "application" (puff) "Professor Ma'am," he rasped in a throaty, smoke-addled whisper. "Anuvver 'opeless 'opeful."

"Thank you, Rumpus." McGonagall placed the scroll on top of the pile of erstwhile seagulls, allowing herself to indulge for a moment the vain hope that the letter might be from a competent candidate. Instead of departing, the house elf gave a fruity, hawking cough and waggled his red-veined ears.

"If it's transfigurin', you be wantin'," (puff) "though I says it meself," (puff) "Rumpus knows how to change a wad of baccy" (puff) "into somefink more _useful_," (puff) "if you catch my drift, Professor Ma'am…" He gave the headmistress a knowing leer that reminded her of Mundungus.

"Thank you, Rumpus. That will be all."

"Suit yerself." (Puff.) "Offers open." (Puff). "Fruit juice into Firewhisky." (Puff.) "Cheese into chocolate." (Puff.) "Runespoors into rabbits," (puff) "or anyfink else what tickles yer fancy, if you catch my dr-"

"_That will be all_, Rumpus."

The elf blew a series of bouncy smoke rings which morphed into long-eared bunnies and hopped suggestively away down a dark wispy tunnel before dispersing into the tobacco-grey air.

"Oh, Rumpus. Could you check to see if Miss Granger has arrived? I have another meeting at two, so if she wants to see me she needs to hurry."

"Right you are, Ma'am."

McGonagall stared through the lingering puffs of cloud after the departed elf.

"Things have come to a perilous pass, Madam, if you are contemplating letting that scurrilous shyster teach Transfiguration." Phineas Nigellus was never slow to express his opinion. "If you attempt to engage my services as a tutor in Defence, I shall perforce refuse."

McGonagall could imagine the Ministry's reaction to the news that the vacant teaching posts had been filled by a house elf and a portrait. But she was running out of options.

"Do you have anything to say on the matter, Albus?" She addressed the picture of her old friend diffidently, aware that the portrait was no substitute for the real man(3). Dumbledore gazed back from his frame with a benign smile, twirling a bony forefinger through a silvery length of trailing beard.

"Alas, Minerva, my only words on the subject today are poltroon, balderdash and trumpet."

Then, in a rare strand of lucidity he murmured to the Sorting Hat.

"Tuition?"

The Hat winked.

**End of chapter. OK, I know you probably want to get back to Snape, but you've got to wait. He's in nearly all the later chapters though, I promise.**

1 Latin: miscellaneous quotes from Lucretius, Vergil and Winnie the Pooh. The meaning isn't crucial here – I just wanted to give a flavour. (But, if you insist, it means something like : In all this there is one thing I fear… since he was a bear of very little brain… he drew the frenzy through his bones… weary of life…).

2 It is said that the English have 'satire instead of revolutions'. In Snape's case, 'sarcasm instead of revolutions' might be more appropriate.

3 A portrait was no substitute. JKR comments in HPL that portraits are different from, say, ghosts, in their capacity for constructive thought. I have taken this to mean that they are mere echoes of their former selves, retaining some of their characteristics but essentially two dimensional. It is unrealistic therefore to assume that Dumbledore's portrait will be able to provide any useful evidence which might be used to exonerate Snape.

**Next chapter: Hermione takes up burglary…**


	8. A Question of Trust

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters and locations are the property of JKR and her publishers. No copyright infringement intended.**

**A/N: This and the next chapter both feature Hermione and take place at Hogwarts. Originally they were one very long chapter. There are a couple of gratuitous Rickman refs – one is so obvious it will hit you between the eyes, the other is a short quote and easily missed.**

**Thanks everybody for the reviews, and to Cecelle and Duj for their first draft comments.**

**The story so far… In the previous chapter, McGonagall was expecting a visit from Miss Granger. Hermione is now in the Castle, but before she can see the headmistress she has to run an errand for Snape…**

**Chapter 8:A QUESTION OF TRUST**

_Collusion, lying, fraud, theft (did 'borrowing' Pig count as theft?) – and now cat burglary! What had she not done for that man? What would she not do? Desk research in the library had been interesting, but theoretical. This though, this was more like it; this was the real thing. A taste of the action. Finally she had the chance to do something properly useful. She'd show 'em. She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing! _Hermione cast a last, tender look around the empty room before extinguishing her wand and slipping out into the dungeon corridor. Behind her she sensed the wards re-engaging as the door eased shut, and she thanked the heavens that she was now safely on the outside of the protective spell, and no longer locked inside Snape's private quarters.

Lengthening her stride, Hermione broke into a run as she hurried to put as much distance between her and Snape's rooms as she possibly could. Her carefully chosen, soft-soled pumps made little noise on the flagstones as she jogged up the dungeon steps and along the ground floor corridor, not stopping until, hot and breathless, she reached the bottom of the main staircase.

"God, I'm unfit," she gasped, clutching at the banister with one hand and at the stabbing stitch in her side with the other. "I'm no Bond girl – I'm not cut out for this."

But the two books and the three little bottles were safe in her shoulder-bag…

Snape hadn't exactly asked her to steal the potions, but when she had noticed the phials on the bedside table she had acted on a sympathetic impulse and popped them into her bag. Potions? It would have been too much to expect her not to be inquisitive. 'Dreamless Sleep' she had read on the first label. No surprises there. 'Essence of Scutellaria'? What was that? Hermione's brow wrinkled as she grappled for the common name, wishing she had Neville's exhaustive memory for all things herbological. Where had she heard that name before? 'Skullcap' - that was it! Wasn't it a leaf used in the Draught of Peace – for tension, anxiety, headaches, that sort of thing? It had been a minor ingredient in Ginny's tonic, she remembered. The last phial contained a blend of stimulant herbal extracts.

'Uppers' and 'downers', the logical side of Hermione's brain analysed, identified, categorised, disapproved, dismissed. Though, she reasoned, relenting, it could have been much worse. He'd had access to infinitely more potent concoctions. In wizard terms this was barely more than an aspirin. It was the water glass that proved her undoing. She'd moved it aside without a second thought as she'd reached for the third bottle, but now, for some reason, it caught her attention. Cloudy and tide-marked from slow evaporation in this cold atmosphere, the glass retained the dregs of Snape's last dose, the diluted potion now dried to flaky brown scales crusting the base. An illogical wave of remorse buffeted Hermione from behind and took out her knees, so that she wobbled weakly onto the bed and sat staring at the empty glass as if it were a Horcrux that contained a sliver of Snape's soul. The thought of Snape – reviled, hated, feared, the unassailably superior Professor Snape – striding out of the classroom and then retreating here, to this lonely, cheerless cell of a room to resort to a sleeping potion… Hermione, in that instant, took on the sins of the school and, ashamed at the thoughtless cruelty of her friends, let her heart pay penance. If Snape had needed these medications to get him through a normal day at Hogwarts, how much more would he be needing them now?

From the moment she had breathed the password and entered into Snape's personal chambers, Hermione had felt – even with his permission – that she was trespassing on forbidden ground. Arctic, empty, lifeless, the room had all the joyless sterility of a Dementor's den, the stale silence of an abandoned tomb. She knew instinctively that the last person to set foot in here had been Snape himself; that the room had remained sealed and inviolate since that fateful day in June.

"McGonagall, penetrate my wards? I'd like to see her try." Snape had scoffed at the idea.

With her wand glowing a dull red, barely enough to see by, she groped her way through the windowless gloom. 'What became of Malfoy's _Hand of Glory_?' she wondered, as her foot caught on the rolled fringe of the rug and she staggered in the darkness. 'Was it dropped, lost in the battle? Have the house elves tidied it away? Has Filch added it to his collection of confiscated treasures?' Right now she'd have given anything to have a proper look round, but any glimmer of light might betray her presence. She dared not risk it. As her straining eyes adjusted, she could make out looming shapes, shades of shadows, suggesting the outlines of armchairs, bookcases, a fireplace. Nothing untoward. What did she expect? If she lit the candles now what would Snape's room be like – as drab and shabby as that miserable sitting-room at Spinner's End? Or cosy like a den, a lair, a bolt-hole? Even Snape had to relax sometime. Didn't he? Though, whenever Harry had consulted his map, Snape always seemed to be working in his office, or patrolling the corridors. Wasn't the man ever off duty? Did he never sleep?

Shivering, Hermione crossed the funereal ante-chamber to plunder the holy of holies, and breathed the password, 'Festina lente'.(1) _What kind of a man needs protective wards on his bedroom door? How sinister; how very sad._

"_Lumos!_" she breathed in relief, pushing the door 'to' behind her and sighing out tension as the light flooded the room. Up until that moment she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge her nerves. The prohibited volumes, Snape had told her, were in a wall safe, guarded by yet another set of unguessable phrases. Feeling a complete nit (a nit who dreaded at any moment being caught in the teeth of a fine comb and squashed), Hermione stood up and addressed the mirror.

"Hello?"

Responding with a dull sparkle – its silvering was speckled, tarnished at the edges by years of damp – the mirror gave a low, respectful cough.

"Polyjuice again, Sir? Most effective – contemporary yet casual. Might I suggest – oh, begging your pardon, Miss."

_Just don't start on my hair_, thought Hermione fiercely, _or I'll shatter you_. Most Hogwarts mirrors couldn't resist the temptation to comment on her appearance, and they were rarely complimentary. In her mind she was running through the sequence of coded questions designed to detect impostors. "Once it realises you are a stranger, it will offer you a selection of objects," Snape had explained. "The sequence varies. I cannot predict what it will be. Food, flowers, Muggle hand tools… Refuse the first, ignore the next two and at the fourth, you must opt for…" Put that way, it didn't sound too complicated.

"Er, Grapthar, have you anything for me?"

"Most certainly, Miss. Can I interest you in a glass of wine?"

"No thank you." _Who did this mirror think it was – Jeeves?_

"The latest line in flying apparel, with co-ordinating broomstick accessories? A subscription to _Witch Weekly_?"

In her determination not to answer these two choices, Hermione was clenching her teeth so tightly one of her fillings tingled. The banality of the questions was most un-Snape-like. If he hadn't warned her she would have told the mirror to go polish itself by now.

"Some fruit perhaps. What would you like?"

Hermione goggled at her reflection – she now appeared to be holding an enormous, laden fruit bowl.

"Pomegranate? Pears? Peaches? Plums? Pineapple?" the mirror prompted impatiently. "Apples, oranges, grapes, guava, mangoes…"

"Anything except…" What had Snape told her? To superimpose an image of a clock face and, depending on the time, choose the item covered by the minute hand. Hermione revised her earlier opinion. This wasn't merely complicated, it was convoluted and contrived. Who in their right mind would play along with this charade? She checked her watch. It was nearly twenty past one. She looked doubtfully as the arrow-head clicked onto some round, pinky-brown, bumpy-skinned fruits at the bottom right of the bowl. "Anything except the lychees," she declared, crossing her fingers.

"An excellent choice, Miss, if I may be so bold."

And before her eyes the mirror melted into the wall, revealing a deep, square opening in the stonework. The vault radiated the evil chill of Dark magic. From a cautious distance, Hermione eyed the hole, alarmed by the dense intensity of the blackness inside. It was impossible to see what was in there. For all she knew there could be creatures - nasty biting things with poisonous fangs, or cursed artefacts like the necklace that had almost killed Katie, or a Horcrux that would maim her for life if she stole it. What the heck was she doing? Whatever was in that safe was _bad_, it was _dangerous_ – she could sense it. Dumbledore wouldn't have banned these books for nothing. Was she an idiot? Had she played straight into Snape's hands? Had he been manipulating her all along so that he could retrieve his foul spell books and use them to help Voldemort? Was she the wizarding world's biggest sucker? Any sane person would get out of this place now, go directly to McGonagall and tell her to station Aurors around the Grangers' house every evening…

Poking her bare hand into a Skrewts' nest couldn't have been any more ghastly than this. Gamely reaching in, Hermione felt the leather spines of a row of books. Counting by sense of touch alone, she walked her fingers to the third and fourth volumes and prised them free. Once in her grasp, the blank, black, title-less covers began to glow, growing warm, then hot, then scorching, until she dropped them onto the bed with a squeal.

"_Scelerati frigescite!_" she hissed quickly, before the damnable things ignited and set fire to the bedclothes. Snape had told her what to expect but it was unnerving all the same.

"Do not open them," he had ordered. "I shall know if you do. And transfigure them into something innocuous, in case you are searched."

"But if it is possible to transfigure them, why didn't you keep them openly in your bookcase, disguised as – oh, _'1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi'_ or something?"

Inscrutable or uncomfortable – it was impossible to say which – Snape had merely raised a stern eyebrow, and Hermione regretted asking, feeling that it must have been a stupid, crass, impertinent question.

**XXX**

"Can't I Floo out?" she had asked him that first evening in the kitchen as they had planned the robbery. "Floo back, say, to the Gryffindor common room. Surely that would be better than sneaking back out of the door. What if someone sees me?"

"It is a calculated risk," Snape had answered. "Don't tell me that the girl who tracked me to Spinner's End is averse to risk. And petty pilfering is quite in your line, is it not? Hitherto you have shown no qualms about purloining my property." Hermione had reddened, squirmed, but Snape didn't pursue it. Her light fingers and lack of scruples were currently an asset. "The chances of the Floos being monitored are, I estimate, greater than the minimal risk of bumping into a passer-by in the few seconds it will take to effect your exit."

He had looked at her then, a complex, levelled gaze, layered with reluctance, interleaved with resentment. Detesting the impotence of his position, he begrudged Hermione her freedom of action and his need to delegate.

"The room itself may also be monitored, though I doubt it. They would not expect me to return to the castle. They will certainly not expect me to have any inside assistance."

He didn't insult her intelligence by drawing undue attention to the dangers. The bitter, backhanded compliment had prompted Hermione to venture a shy smile, but Snape had already dropped his eyes back to the table-top.

"Set up an interview with McGonagall," he had instructed. "It will give you access to the building." Pride prevented him from asking her outright to plead his case with the headmistress.

Hermione had been watching out for him all that evening, and had hastened down the drive as soon as she saw the dark form materialise out of the dusk. Snape loitered in the purple-orange shadow of the Sumach tree by the gate, his arms wrapped oddly in front of him as though he were nursing a stomach ache. As Hermione approached, however, he had loosened his cloak and extracted a dopey but nonetheless belligerent Barn Owl…

**XXX**

"Miss Granger? Miss _Hermione_ Granger?"

A scruffy house elf, wreathed in his own personal pall of smoke, was surveying her from the first landing. Hermione, still panting on the bottom step, relinquished her grip on the banister, and smoothed herself down. She gave a broad grin.

"Oh, hello. I'm afraid I don't think we've met. Are you a friend of Dobby, or Winky?"

The elf said nothing but puffed another noxious cloud into the stairwell. Hermione's confidence faltered under his silent, smoky observation.

"Too many stairs in this castle," she joked, aware of her pink cheeks and the perspiration that was inconveniently breaking out on her top lip.

"Been runnin' _down_ 'em, 'av yer?" For an elf his tone was sardonic, bordering on disrespectful.

"Well, I'd hardly be running _up_, from the dungeons, now would I?" she flashed. It would have been better to keep quiet.

"If you say so, Miss." The elf exuded scepticism. "Professor McGonagall says to 'urry up, or yer'll be late."

"Yes, I'm on my way. Tell her I'm just coming." Hermione held her breath as she passed him on the stairs, unwilling to inhale his fug. When she glanced back and down, the elf had gone.

**End of chapter.**

**So, the next chapter is where Hermione finally confronts McGonagall, but not before she has had a run-in with… who do you think?**

1 Festina lente – roughly translates as 'more haste less speed'.


	9. The Trojan Cuckoo

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters and locations are the property of JKR and her publishers. **

**A/N: A big thank you to all of you who have taken the time to R&R, and thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their first draft comments.**

**This is the continuation of chapter 8. Hermione, having just burgled Snape's rooms and retrieved his dark magic books, now hurries to her meeting with McGonagall.**

**Chapter 9 : THE TROJAN CUCKOO**

The gargoyle was singing. For such a glowering, lugubrious lump of stone its voice, though flat and tunelessly off key, was unexpectedly effeminate. Hermione grinned to herself; she'd never met a gargoyle in holiday mood, letting its chiselled hair down. As she drew nearer however, she realised that it was not the gargoyle singing at all, but someone sitting on the staircase, four steps up, hidden from view until now by the curve of the spiral.

"Hello," said Luna Lovegood.

"Oh, hi. I'm sorry, I can't stop and chat. I've got an appointment with McGonagall, and I'm late already."

Hermione approached the stairs, expecting Luna to budge over and make space for her to squeeze by. The step next to Luna was blocked by a bursting, woven hemp satchel sprouting leaves at one corner, and the way up was further obstructed by a long stick propped diagonally across the stairwell. This turned out, on closer inspection, to be the handle of a large butterfly net. Luna didn't move. Perhaps the gargoyle was having a holiday after all, and she was deputising. Stranger things have happened. At least she wouldn't have to commentate.

"Excuse me." Hermione mounted the bottom step pointedly, deliberating whether, if it came to a shoving match, she would be physically strong enough to push the silly girl out of her way; or whether her legs would stretch to clamber over Luna's feet, the satchel and the pole without doing the splits.

"Oh, I wouldn't go up there, if I were you," Luna advised cheerfully, her head nodding in time to the music that was still playing at low volume in her brain.

_Well, you're not me, thank goodness._

"Do you want to hear my song? It's a Quidditch song. I've read the rules now."

Without giving Hermione any say in the matter, Luna set up a jaunty rhythm with her right foot and began to conduct an invisible team of cheerleaders. Then, to a tune which might have been a distant relation, several times removed, of 'Who put the bomp in the Bomp-A-Bomp-A-Bomp'(1), she began to chant:

" '_Who put the Quid in Quidditch?_

_Who put the Beat in a Beater-Seeker ding-dong?'_

D'you like it? I thought we could shout out the name of the winning House at the end. Ravenclaw! Hooray! Listen. I've got lots more verses:

_'Who put the Blood in Bludger?' -"_

"Yes, all right. I get the picture." Hermione fidgeted.

_"'Who put the Key in Keeper?' -"_

"Luna! **Why** can't I go upstairs?"

"Because Professor McGonagall's in a meeting. She's interviewing my dad – you know, for the new Defence teacher's job, or Transfiguration, one or the other, or both. But if it's all the same to McGonagall, Dad'd prefer to do Defence because it'd be easier to arrange a sabbatical for a single year."

Luna spoke as though the subjects were interchangeable.

"But your dad's a journalist," Hermione objected. _And not a very good one. _"Is he qualified to teach Defence? Is he qualified to teach _at all_?"

Amusement bulged in the misty grey eyes: Luna found the question deeply irrelevant.

"Life is the best teacher. Each of us is qualified in our own way," she said serenely. "And anyway, my dad's awfully versatile."

_He'll have to be._ Hermione had never met Mr Lovegood, but had formed a scathing opinion of him based on the editorial content of _The Quibbler_. Though, to give him his due, he had been very obliging about printing Rita Skeeter's article about Harry and the return of 'V'.

"_Professor_ Lovegood sounds rather impressive, doesn't it? Do you think people'll be nicer to me if dad's a member of staff?"

Hermione really didn't know how to reply. Resigned to waiting her turn, she let her bag and its precious contents slide off her shoulder to the floor, then crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall without answering.

Luna tapped her way through several more staccato, syncopated verses, with added knee-slapping percussion.

"It's better like this, don't you think," the young Ravenclaw asked suddenly.

"What is?"

"Hogwarts. When it's all quiet and deserted. More like home."

Hermione rolled her eyes. She found Luna's ingenuousness embarrassing – either pretentious or pathetic, she couldn't decide which. Harry always stuck up for her, called her 'kooky but genuine' - he'd liked her enough to invite her to Slughorn's Christmas party – but Hermione remained sceptical. How could someone so bright – and whatever else she might be, Luna wasn't stupid – be so unworldly, so gauche, such a romanticist?

"Chosen your NEWTs yet?" Hermione inquired, steering the conversational coracle into less choppy waters. Luna's expression became thoughtful, her tongue peeping out of the corner of her mouth as she silently enumerated choices on the fingers of her left hand. The many and varied re-starts and back-tracks gave Hermione the impression that this was the first time Luna had even considered the matter.

"Hmm. Ancient Runes and Astronomy. That's two. And then… Hmm. Divination? Though that's rather an easy option. Charms, I think, and maybe Herbology or Transfiguration. Dad says – well, he would, wouldn't he? – that I should do Care of Magical Creatures, but to be honest I don't know if I really want to spend so much time all on my own with Hagrid. And dad says if he gets the job I could maybe do Defence as a non-examination subject – like a Life Skills course – as long as -" Here she emitted one of her honking brays of laughter. "…as long as I promise not to giggle if he muddles up his 'Protego!' with his 'Protero!'(2) You should apply."

"_What?_"

"To teach Transfiguration. Ginny says you do wonderful goldfinches."

"I want to sit my NEWTs, not teach them," said Hermione, flattered but cringing at being reminded of her feathery flash of temper. "Had a good summer?" she asked, to be polite, not particularly interested.

"Not as much fun as spotting Snorkacks last year. I've been helping dad with his article: '_Who put the HOG in Hogwarts?_' It gave me the idea for my Quidditch song – did you notice?"

"The Hog? Isn't it named after Hogsback Mountain?(3) They all are – Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, the Hog's Head…"

Luna gave a delighted snort, doing a reasonable imitation of a hog herself.

"Not 'hog' as in piggy!" she crowed. "Dad's taking a whole new 'angle' on the story – in business jargon HOG stands for Humungous Over-riding Goal.(4)"

"It does?" _She's making this up. It could stand for lots of things: Harry Ogles Ginny, Hairy Old Goblins, Huffy Outraged Gnomes, Hardy Outdoor Geraniums…_

"It's simple," explained Luna. "In Hogwarts' case, the Over-riding Goal was the Founders' ambition to establish the school. I'd call that humungous, wouldn't you? It's been jolly fascinating finding out more about the Founders – The Famous Four! Or they might be Fabulous or Fantastic – we'll leave that to the sub-editor. We're seeing Agatha Chubb tomorrow – you know, the Ministry authority on Ancient Wizarding Artefacts. Hopefully she'll give us the low down on Gryffindor's sword and stuff like that. Apart from anything, it's been a brilliant cover."

"For what?" Hermione showed more interest now. Luna might have turned up some more references to Ravenclaw's Pen. She might have access to esoteric House knowledge.

Luna made a show of checking behind her over both shoulders, up the stairs and along the corridor, before she leaned forwards and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

"Promise you won't say?"

"I…er…" Hermione wasn't going to commit herself to promising this barmy girl anything. Who knows where that might lead? But she was very curious; excitement fluttered in her chest.

"My dad's had a tip-off. Shhh! A _Sweet Yowker(_5) has been spotted in the grounds. Dad says it's really neat. It might be nesting in the Forbidden Forest."

Hermione was none the wiser.

"It's a Hebe Moth," Luna continued in a whisper. "Most amazingly rare." She made an odd, awkward flailing movement with her arms. "A great big thing."

"Big? Luna, you don't mean a _behemoth(__6)_?"

This comment, much to Hermione's chagrin, elicited another hoot of hilarity.

"I'd need a bigger net than this one to catch a hippo. Really, Hermione, you do say the strangest things. _Moth_? You know, like a butterfly but its wings stay flat…? Comes out at night…?" Luna explained with exaggerated patience. Linking her thumbs, she flapped her hands in front of her and then, catching a patch of sunlight, couldn't resist morphing the moth into shadow pictures of a pecking hen and a trotting fox.

Being patronised by Luna Lovegood, on top of missing her meeting with McGonagall, had soured any sense of achievement Hermione had been feeling after her successful foray into theft.

"So your dad's not interested in teaching at all. He just wants to get a job here so he can spend his time swooping around the Forest chasing butterflies."

"Moths. It's perfect, isn't it?" exclaimed Luna happily, plunging her shadow ostrich's head into the sand. "He can do that and his other research at the same time."

"The stuff on the Founders?" Hermione wondered if she could persuade Luna to tell her what they'd discovered so far. Luna, however, tapped the side of her nose in pantomime sleuth short-hand for secrecy and insider knowledge.

"This is all most incredibly hush-hush. You can't tell anyone. Shhh! Don't quote me on this, but… Dad's planning to publish an exposé on Professor Snape."

"**No!**" Hermione failed to stifle the cry that broke from her lips. "Er, I mean, why? Isn't there enough evidence against Snape already? That's old news. Who'd pay to read it?" The thought of _The Quibbler_ cashing in on Snape's predicament to boost their sales figures made her furious.

"Maybe dad'll take a more controversial approach," said Luna vaguely. "What readers go for is the human angle. What do we know about Snape's childhood or his family? What about his parents? Or brothers and sisters? Think of the skeletons there'll be lurking in that mouldy closet. And Hogwarts is the place for my dad to find them." For a second the dreamy gaze became shrewd, as though a voile curtain had been twitched back revealing a sharp, blue expanse of clear sky. "Hermione, have you ever seen a Trojan Cuckoo?"

"It's a bird, right? Not another kind of peculiar moth?" Hermione sighed. _What had this got to do with Snape?_

Luna's helpful cuckoo impersonation sounded more like an agitated owl, or possibly a gibbon.

"All right! No, I've never seen one. Why? Have we got those in the Forest too?"

Twisting strands of hair around her fore-finger into lank, blond rat-tails, Luna pouted her bottom lip and looked at the ceiling. Mimed innocence came across as canny and premeditated.

"What's the one thing everybody knows about cuckoos - they lay their eggs in other birds' nests, right?"

"Oh, don't tell me - these cuckoos are really cunning and they build nests in the shape of little wooden horses…"

"Do they? I'll have to tell my dad to look out for them. So, anyway, these cuckoos are reared by some other poor bird, and then, when they're ready to hatch – no, I mean fledge – what do they do?"

"Jump?"

"No, silly. Well, they do eventually. But first… They turn on the parent bird who has brought them up, and peck him to death. Then they jump, er, fly. How's that for gratitude?"

"What are you getting at, Luna?" _If this is about actual cuckoos I'll eat my wand._

The distant tinkling of doubt that had begun to ring in Hermione's mind as Luna embarked on her story had become a clanging alarm bell. She stared at the girl and Luna, unblinkingly, stared right back.

"Who, me? Nothing. It's just that sometimes it's difficult to know who to trust, isn't it?"

Hermione was tired of fables.

"Luna, are you saying you don't trust me? How is all this connected to your dad's article about Snape? I don't think it's a very good analogy."

"You don't?" That unblinking stare again. Hermione felt she had been lured into Luna's net. Had she given herself away? _Were the Lovegoods pro or anti Snape?_

"Ahem! Now then, Luna, remember S.C.I.L." A mildly reproving, male voice called out. Mr Lovegood, having survived his interview, emerged from the office and joined the girls on the stairs. "The four most important letters in the newspaper business: Slander'n'Sue; Confessions'n'Confidentiality; Information'n'Intelligence; Libel'n'Litigate. How do you do? Barnstable Lovegood." He held out his hand to Hermione. "And you are?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Are you now! We meet at last. Harry's friend." Hermione felt her social status rise several degrees by association. "I think, Hermione, that what my daughter was trying to say was that the prime responsibility and aim of investigative journalism is to seek out the Truth. Even if it means treading on a few toes or paddling against the current. _The Quibbler_ prides itself on being more open-minded than the mainstream press."

_Open-minded?_ That sounded positive. But Hermione knew she had to tread carefully – she didn't want to become another trusting foster-cuckoo and get eaten alive.

"Just supposing," she said slowly, "that you discovered evidence – some mitigating evidence, say, which shed a whole new light on Professor Snape's role in the murder? What would you do?"

"Double the print run! A scoop like that would have papers walking off the shelves."

"You'd publish?"

"Absolutely! The public has the right to know. Why? Do you have a lead?" He was already reaching for his notebook.

"Who? Me? No, oh no." Hermione laughed it off. "But if, for example, you found that Snape was working together with Professor Dumbledore all along… What I mean is, have you considered how dangerous it could be for Snape if You-Know-Who got to hear about it? You'd be signing his death warrant. Hypothetically, I mean."

The editor flicked the notebook shut. The Lovegoods might inhabit their own cloud cuckoo land, but they were cagey about entering Hermione's.

"Our duty, as journalists, is to make available the facts."

_Facts? UFOs and yetis and horoscopes and moon frogs and Spectrespecs? _

"Professor McGonagall said you were to go straight up, by the way," Mr Lovegood told her belatedly. "I hope we shall meet again."

_Too right we will._ Even if it meant missing out on an opportunity to win over readers to the cause, one way or another Hermione had to prevent _The Quibbler_ from publishing any article that might stir suspicions about Snape.

**XXX**

"Take a seat, Miss Granger. What can I do for you?"

Rarely had Hermione seen Professor McGonagall so harassed: there was about her that air of frustration and brittleness of manner reminiscent of the 'Umbridge' days. The old witch was nearing, if not already at, the end of her tether. She was not the most approachable woman at the best of times; this was a bad beginning.

"I'm sorry I'm late Professor. Mr Lovegood stopped me to chat, and I didn't want to be rude."

"Och, that man!" The headmistress put up a token resistance to the demands of confidentiality, then yielded to indignation. Lateness was the least of her problems. "He's spent the last twenty minutes propounding some preposterous theory that Molly Weasley has been abducted by aliens as part of an inter-planetary fertility research programme. You can read about it in the next issue of his rag, if you want to waste your time on such twaddle."

Recognising a cue, Hermione quickly revised her opening gambit. Together she and Snape had concocted a plausible alibi for her visit.

"That's partly why I wanted to see you, Professor."

"If you're here to tell me you've taken a job writing for _The Quibbler_, I shall be gravely disappointed," said McGonagall, regaining a hint of dry humour. "Go on."

"No, it's not that. It's… Well, I've been spending a lot of time with the Weasleys this holiday, because of…everything."

McGonagall nodded, not requiring details.

"It's been terrible: not knowing, and not being able to do anything. We – all of us – feel so useless. And I thought… Professor, the thing is, I want to be admitted to the Order. I hate this feeling of being on the outside, being kept in the dark when such important things are going on. I feel powerless. I want to get involved. I'm not a child any more. I need to play my part."

The headmistress listened without interrupting. In her preoccupation with school issues, the Order had become a lesser priority. Not that she was shirking her duties - she had only slipped into Dumbledore's shoes as a temporary measure. Her leadership was no foregone conclusion. Privately she believed Kingsley to be a more suitable candidate – personal qualities aside, his Ministerial contacts saw him better placed to monitor developments in Dark activity. She contemplated the girl before her, approving her confidence and assertiveness, sensing a new maturity. Such intelligence and initiative would be an asset to the Order, but –

"You are still very young, Hermione."

"I'm of age already. I'll be eighteen in a few weeks. I'm old enough."

"I can't promise anything. But I shall give the matter careful thought. I'll raise it at the next meeting."

Another meeting to arrange! The Order had been functioning largely under its own momentum since Dumbledore's death, each member pursuing their allocated roles, but this situation could not continue indefinitely. There had to be someone at the helm, directing operations.

"Was that all, Miss Granger? I am exceedingly busy."

Obediently Hermione stood up, delaying her question so as not to appear over-anxious.

"So there's no news then? About Mrs Weasley, I mean."

"Regrettably not. You might pass on my condolences to Arthur – and Ronald and the rest of the family."

"Or Professor Lupin? Is Remus all right?"

Although Hermione had bumped into Tonks at The Burrow once or twice, even the bubblegum-haired Auror had little knowledge of how her fiancé's mission was progressing.

"Infiltration is a slow process. It can take months to gain people's trust. The last I heard, Remus was fine. Obviously we don't expect any news for the next few days." _Full moon. No, he'd be otherwise engaged._

"And what about Snape? Have the Aurors got any leads on him yet? Or Malfoy?"

McGonagall visibly bristled.

"If that dreadful man doesn't want to be caught, I doubt he will be. As slippery as an elver, that one. Gone to ground with You-Know-Who, plotting his vile mischiefs. Azkaban's too good for that villain."

"Is that where he'll end up – Azkaban?"

"If he's lucky." McGonagall's expression was flint-edged.

"So there's no chance he'll manage to twist the evidence and be acquitted again – like he did before?"

"Albus won't be there to vouch for him this time. Don't you worry, Hermione. I'd be surprised if the case even comes to trial. We have our eye-witness in Harry – what more do we need? Severus Snape is – as you youngsters might say – _toast_."

"No trial?" The magma of injustice was welling deep within Hermione's core. "Surely even Snape deserves a trial? Doesn't he get a chance to put his case? What if he has new information?" _Why wouldn't McGonagall listen? Would anyone ever listen?_

"Such as?" The headmistress' tone was cooling noticeably.

"Well, you said just now that Harry is our only witness. We only have his say so as to what happened that night. Supposing Harry was killed - what proof of guilt would we have then? Or what if… I know this is far-fetched, but what if Malfoy came back to testify and said something completely different? Or what if there was evidence we don't know about yet – in Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve, for instance? Would that be admissible?"

"Miss Granger, we are not at liberty to pry into the personal possessions of any member of staff, deceased or otherwise."

_Didn't wizards have any system of search warrants or subpoena?_ Hermione's impression was that Aurors had no scruples whatsoever about invading privacy or appropriating property.

"Have you _asked_ him?" Hermione's eyes travelled to the portrait on the wall where Dumbledore sat placidly absorbed in his knitting, counting the stitches as he turned the heel of a fluffy purple and gold striped bed-sock.

"Albus is not the man he once was, Hermione. The _Avada Kedavra_ is a terrible, terrible thing. The echoes can linger, even in a portrait." McGonagall had not wanted to admit this, even to herself.

"What about Snape's thoughts then?" Hermione pressed. "If they were examined in the Pensieve, they might explain -"

"There is nothing to explain! The man is a traitor who has taken us for a bunch of bonny fools. That's all there is to it. I wouldn't trust a thought that's been anywhere near his head. Memories can be tampered with, you know. I've not a dram of sympathy for the man. He could beg me on bended knee and I wouldn't listen. I've washed my hands of him." The headmistress' chin dropped as she eyed Hermione over the top of her spectacles. "Why the sudden interest, Miss Granger? Is there something I should know?"

Glumly Hermione shook her head. Any hopes that McGonagall might be sympathetic to Snape's plight were now well and truly quashed.

"No reason, Professor. I'd just hate to see another miscarriage of justice, that's all. Like with Sirius."

"Little chance of that, my girl. Of course, we still have to catch the devil, but once he's in custody I promise you he'll get all the_ justice_ he deserves."

Hermione didn't like the sound of that. The Headmistress rose, signalling that the interview was over.

"I shall give serious consideration to your application, Hermione."

"Thank you, Professor." It was said with a heavy heart.

Luckily, Luna was no longer seated on the stairs. After that farewell, she would never have believed that Hermione was not short-listed to teach Transfiguration.

McGonagall closed the door behind the girl, smiling sadly to see Dumbledore on his hands and knees reaching for the ball of purple wool which had rolled under his chair.

"Bother!" she exclaimed. "I forgot to ask her about that owl."

**End of chapter. **

1 Shawaddy-waddy, 1982. A rare example of Luna's words making slightly more sense than the original.

2 _Protego!_ – Shield charm. _Protero!_ – Trampling or crushing charm.

3 Hogsback Mountain. I'd just been to see Brokeback Mountain when I wrote this chapter! I know JKR said she got the idea for Hogwarts from a flower. I don't know the official origin of the rest.

4 Humungous Over-riding Goal. No, it really does stand for that. There was a huge article on it in one of my husband's motivational marketing magazines.

5 Niedzwiedziowka hebe – extremely rare Polish moth; found on hebe flowers. As always, Luna has an esoteric take on reality. Or maybe I have – 'neat Sweet Yowker'! Humour me, please.

6 Behemoth – enormous creature, often identified as the water ox or hippopotamus.

**Next chapter: Hermione reports back to Snape.**


	10. A Fortuitous Connection

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters etc are the property of JKR and her publishers.**

**A/N: Thanks for the feedback everybody. Apologies if Luna was somewhat OTT, but don't worry – we're back to Snape and Hermione in this chapter. Special thanks to my previewers Cecelle and Duj.**

**The story so far: Hermione has accomplished her latest errand - retrieving Snape's books from Hogwarts - but was less successful in her 'sounding out' of McGonagall. Still no news of Mrs Weasley; Harry is still off chasing Horcruxes (good luck to him!). Ron has suspicions.**

**Chapter 10: A FORTUITOUS CONNECTION**

"If I've got to suffer, the least you could do is stay awake," puffed Hermione, embarking on her fourth set of bicep curls. "How many's that, Crooks? Are you counting?"

A single slit of yellow glinted with supreme indifference for all of three seconds, before settling back into that blissful lassitude that comes with a full belly and a hot radiator. Crookshanks was far too comfortable to care about that undignified Muggle madness – exercise.

"What's next?" the girl gasped, clutching the back of the chair and peering fuzzily at the Health and Fitness supplement. Nowhere in the small print was there anything to say that a few squats, lunges and abdominal crunches should have such a woeful effect on one's vision. Maybe it was oxygen starvation; she kept forgetting to inhale. Despite being (supposedly) half-way through a full body work out, the Lycra-clad 'lovely' in the photo did not appear to have broken sweat, and certainly was having no difficulty focussing, breathing or standing without support.

Walking, Weights and Water – the 'W' Plan made fitness sound easily achievable. _'Anyone can find time to fit our three simple Ws into their daily routine,' _the article proclaimed. _'Walk your way to cardiovascular stamina; drink water to flush away those toxins; trim and tone with our beginners' weights' programme. No special equipment required.' _Hermione had decided to give it a go.

The previous afternoon, Hermione had dragged a reluctant Ron out for a walk. McGonagall's end of term injunction to be careful and only travel in twos and when strictly necessary had faded in their memories with each passing week of the summer holiday. And Mrs Weasley's disappearance, rather than making Ron more cautious, had had the opposite effect. Days spent cooped in and around the house had made him restless and defiant.

"Think of it as Quidditch training," Hermione had wheedled. "It'll be invigorating."

Ginny had tactfully declined to join them, and Harry was off Quill-seeking in Norwich, or Nantwich – Ron couldn't remember which 'wich' – so it was set to be a romantic stroll _à deux_. For once Hermione wasn't sorry that Ginny wasn't there; that girl was quite fit enough already. Playing Quidditch might be a dull hobby, but it did have some benefits.

From The Burrow they headed across the fields to the banks of the River Otter, followed the towpath for a while, then cut through the village and on up towards the slopes of Stoatshead Hill.

"We can Apparate back," Hermione had compromised. "At least it keeps us out of the house."

Ron's family discouraged visitors for a few days around full moon time – Bill could be moody and unpredictable, and it was generally felt to be a tactful precaution. Judging by Ron's demeanour, one might have thought more than one Weasley brother had a 'touch of the Bills'. He had been so grouchy that Hermione was soon regretting asking him to come along. He seemed constantly on the point of saying something, and then changing his mind, contenting himself with sarky digs about hikers, ramblers, joggers and pedestrians in general.

"Why the sudden taste for fell-walking?" he complained. "Been up Totridge recently, or Hawthornthwaite?(1)"

Had he been looking at a map, checking up on her? Taken aback by Ron's sudden geographical knowledge, Hermione pretended not to understand. There was no point in dragging Neville into this; she didn't want to pursue the Lancashire connection. So she had tolerated Ron's attitude, putting it down to sour grapes about not being able to show off his new Apparating skills, until the moment when she had innocently stopped to point out a patch of wild Chuntering Chervil in the hedgerow amongst the nettles and docks.

"Yeah, that'd be right. You'll be taking up gardening next," Ron fumed, storming off ahead in an inexplicable huff. Next time she wanted to go for a walk, Hermione resolved, she would borrow a dog – a rottweiler couldn't be any snappier than her nominal boyfriend.

And today, foolishly, she had been waiting for him to come and apologise. Not that there was much chance of that now; it was getting too late. Ron tried to avoid her parents wherever possible, and she was positive he hadn't been listening when she'd mentioned that tonight they'd be out at a Badminton Club 'friendly' at the sports centre.

It was her dad's excruciating fondness for nicknames which threw Ron. How was he supposed to respond when addressed convivially as 'Burger Boy'? Harry got off relatively lightly as 'Boy Wonder', though Mr Granger often egged the embarrassment by whistling several bars of the 'Harry Lime' theme too. Ginny came into an all-embracing category for Hogwarts' students known collectively as the 'hubble-bubble' brigade.(2) Hermione had long since given up trying to convert or understand her father. Why the names? Was it shyness? A feeble stab at mateyness? A form of condescension? Or was he simply too self-absorbed, too work-obsessed to remember her friends' names?

"Come on Crooks – shake a woolly leg! You could do with some exercise, Mr _Fat_ness."

Hermione doggedly returned to the fitness supplement. _'There is no need to purchase dumb bells. A bag of sugar makes an ideal 1Kg hand weight.' _Or it would if you could keep hold of it without your sweaty palms making the wrapper soggy. Hermione bemoaned her first attempted upper body workout, most of which had been spent on her hands and knees – not doing press-ups, but sweep-ups, after the splitting sugar packet had left the kitchen as white and crunchy as a frosty morning. _'Or use a can of beans'_ the article blithely suggested. _'Just get those muscles pumping.'_ The Granger larder didn't run to beans, so Hermione had grabbed two tins of soup and subjected them to several punishing rounds of 'upright rows' and 'triceps squeezes'. By the time she progressed to 'lateral raises' her arms, shoulders and brain cells had gone for the burn so thoroughly they were smouldering. The standard, two-serving, 415g soup tins, she was convinced, had expanded to family size; after sixteen pulsed 'shoulder presses' they had swelled again to bucket-size, bumper catering packs… She could barely lift them any more, let alone _'push them up in a controlled straight arm lift'_.

_'Sleeveless, backless dress' _served as a motivational mantra. There might be not be another Yule Ball on the horizon, but her 18th was approaching fast. Her wizard coming-of-age had been a very low-key affair; she wasn't going to miss out on her Muggle birthday too. In the short-term, however, the phrase _'Ron is a jerk'_ had fired the aggression needed to press her way through the agonising repetitions.

When the expected knock came, Hermione was flushed and pumped and spoiling for a fight.

"Well?" she demanded, flinging open the door, ready to deck Ron if he wasn't suitably contrite. "Oh!" she gulped, her self-assertion escaping in a mew of mortification, acutely conscious of her skimpy crop-top and breathlessly heaving chest. "It's you. I thought you were Ron." Crossing her arms defensively, covering up, clamping her damp armpits to her ribcage, she stood aside for Snape to enter. _Where the hell had she put her sweatshirt? _"You knocked," she accused, irrationally blaming Snape for this latest gaffe.

"It was locked. An expedient negated when you answer the door wandless," he carped. Giving no indication that he had noticed her clothing – or lack of it – and without waiting for an invitation, he dragged out a chair and dropped into it with a heavy sigh. Hermione regarded him with surprise. Was this how Luna's trespassing cuckoo made himself at home in the nest? He had the air of a travel-weary explorer who has finally reached base-camp after a gruelling trek, and wants nothing more than to stop walking and unlace his boots. It was the first time in six years Hermione had seen him unshaven. Compared to the girl's energetic, ruddy glow, his natural pallor was unhealthy.

"You look tired," she commented.

"You'd be tired, if -" the whiplash retort cracked back.

_If what?_ Hermione waited for him to complete the sentence, but the momentary flicker of honesty was a stray spark. Snape stamped it out before it could catch. In the pause that followed, Hermione's frantic eyes scoured the surfaces for her top – she'd flung it off when she thought she was about to expire during the triceps dips (how could such a small muscle cause so much pain?), but she hadn't seen where it landed. Still Snape said nothing, just sat there, barely acknowledging her presence. Uncertain how best to proceed, Hermione stood eying him, wondering why he had come this time, whether he had any news, or another errand for her to run. A mild tic worried at the lid of his right eye. _Was he angry? Had she offended him? Was he ill again? _

"I got your books." If Snape wasn't going to speak, Hermione would have to take the initiative. She placed two cheery volumes on the table in front of him: _'Travels with Trolls'_ and _'Wanderings with a Werewolf'_. "You said to turn them into something innocuous," she laughed thinly, struck by his astonishment, lifting her wand. As the Untransfiguration spell took effect, the beatifically smiling cover shots of Gilderoy Lockhart dulled and darkened and, as if the beaming blond Adonis were being swallowed up in a vat of melted tar, finally sank into the textured blackness of the original leather.

A shudder rippled through the wizard as he picked up the dark books. No thanks, no congratulation for a job well done.

"Did you open them? Show me your hands."

Unquestioningly, Hermione held out both hands for inspection. Snape turned them over and examined both palms before declaring himself satisfied.

"Very good."

His own hands, she couldn't help but notice, were cold to the touch and dry to the point of being scaly, the skin cracking at the knuckles and fingertips, with several deep scratches across the backs and wrists.

"Owls," he muttered, catching her troubled gaze.

"What were you looking for, Sir?" asked Hermione, dipping to retrieve her sweatshirt which she had finally spotted under his chair, and pulling it over her head in relief. Covered up, she felt less exposed, more confident.

"Had you attempted to read either of these texts without first using the correct incantation, the pages would have lacerated your fingers."

"And yet you didn't _warn_ me? What if -"

"Then you would have learned your lesson the hard way. As it was, my faith in your obedience was vindicated."

Classroom discipline still applied. Hermione bit back her grievances; why should she expect his tactics now to be any different from those he had employed at school? He was the same man.

"Grapthar was a perfect gentleman," she said, "for a mirror."

"Indeed. What did he offer you? Flowers?"

"Fruit."

"Ah, fruit," he repeated, almost to himself, allowing his dulled eyes to glaze as they rested on the featureless black covers. He fell silent, his head tilting slowly forwards and for a moment his eyelids drooped. He was clearly exhausted. Then, with a jerk, he roused himself.

"And McGonagall?"

It was the question Hermione had been dreading. She shook her head.

"She's still awfully angry, Sir. She's up to her neck in admin – recruiting new staff, fending off the Ministry, all that kind of thing. It's almost as if she blames you – not only for… for Professor Dumbledore, but for everything that's happened since. She wasn't even prepared to listen. I really don't think you should try approaching her – the mood she was in, she'd probably AK you herself, and the Ministry would be only too happy to call it self-defence. I even suggested taking some of your thoughts for her to see in the Pensieve, but she wouldn't hear of it."

"You didn't tell her you'd seen me?"

"No. No, of course not." _Give me some credit._ "It was all hypothetical. She may have thought I was labouring the point, but then that's the advantage of having a reputation for being a pedant. I'm sorry, Sir. I did try. I'll go back and talk to her again -"

"No. You'd only arouse suspicion." His shoulders slumped in resignation.

Hermione wished she had better, more positive news. Tonight Snape seemed so spiritless, so _down_. Fetching the three potions from her bag, shyly she set them on the table by his elbow.

"I brought you these, from your room."

His glance slid from the phials to the girl's face and back to the bottles, recognising the labels, registering her concern. Without a word of acknowledgement, he transferred them to his pocket. Hermione couldn't tell if he was grateful or insulted. She filled in the blanks herself: _Thank you. Very thoughtful of you. It wasn't any trouble, Sir._

In the soporific warmth of the kitchen, Snape was fighting to keep his eyes open. The man was dead on his feet. Hermione, seeing his head nodding again, had visions of him falling asleep right there at the table. How would she explain that to her parents when they came home? She couldn't very well offer him a bed, but perhaps she might boost his flagging energy levels.

"Are you hungry, Sir? I could knock you up a quick sandwich, or -" Her eyes fell on the two tins on the worktop. "Or some soup. If I whack it in the microwave, it'll only take a couple of minutes."

"Don't bother." Pride broke through fatigue, bringing with it the instinctive recoil from kindness.

"Look, Sir, it's not _pity_, it's not _charity_, it's not -" Hermione hesitated over the word, but still conscious of her state of undress at his arrival, decided to say it anyway, "- it's not _seduction_. It's just soup. Would you like some or not?"

**XXX**

By the time he had devoured the soup, bread and cheese that Hermione put before him, and was sipping his second cup of tea, Snape was looking less pale and more alert. Watching him eat, Hermione was appalled at how hungry he really had been.

"Don't they feed you at that godforsaken place – wherever it is? Or let you rest? It's worse than prison. When did you last have a decent night's sleep?" _Shut up, Hermione. Don't fuss. You'll only antagonise him._

"Friday." A factual reply; no trace of self-pity. Yet why would he have told her this at all if he had not, at some subconscious level, wanted her sympathy? Hermione couldn't work it out. She wasn't used to getting straight answers from Snape.

And today was Tuesday. Three days without sleep. Ye gods! It wasn't human.

"And just how long do you think you can keep on going at that pace?" she blazed. Snatching up the empty plates, she dumped them in the sink and turned on the tap fiercely, letting the water gush until her brain ran clear of anger.

"The last few days have been exceptional," he said. Explanation and evasion now combined in an infuriatingly unhelpful comment.

"But you can't be making potions the whole time – not for three days and nights on the trot, can you? What kind of potion needs that amount of attention? Sir, I probably shouldn't ask, but what is it you actually _do_ for 'him'?"

Hermione had never been comfortable with the You-Know-Who type circumlocutions, but she knew Snape wouldn't let her get away with the name Voldemort, and she couldn't bring herself to use the term 'Dark Lord'. It was nothing really, just a hitch in his breath, a thought shadow passing across his mind, but for a second she would have sworn that his impulse was to tell her.

"Brewing potions forms a substantial part of my duties." He glanced ruefully at his cracked hands. _Too many hours slaving over a hot cauldron?_ "As for the rest – the less you know the better. Is Potter having any luck with his treasure hunt?"

Hermione accepted the abrupt change of subject with good grace. She hadn't expected him to reply at all. Harry's search for the Pen of Ravenclaw was proving, if anything, too successful. Following up new leads had become a full time occupation. He was Apparating from one end of the country to the other, investigating references and trying to authenticate the proliferation of relics, half of which claimed a provenance linking directly back to the Founder.

"It's like the Hydra," she told Snape. "As soon as Harry debunks one rumour, another two spring up in its place. It'll keep him busy for ever. There's even an eagle sanctuary down in Cornwall which sells 'genuine' Ravenclaw quills in the gift shop. He's traced at least eleven of those already – all the owners swearing blind they're the real thing. How dumb can you get? Oh, and we were hoping to talk to Agatha Chubb sometime about ancient artefacts, but so far she's been too busy to see us."

"The Ministry woman?" Snape's brow furrowed.(3)

Hermione recounted her meeting with Barnstable Lovegood, pointing out how Harry's quest overlapped with research for the forthcoming article in _The Quibbler_.

"In his own way Mr Lovegood seems just as flaky as Luna – you know, nice, but totally barking. But, Sir, I got a real sense that they'd be willing to give you a fair hearing. That's got to be a good thing, hasn't it? I don't suppose they'd be able to find out that much about you at Hogwarts, would they, Sir? I mean, you've covered your tracks?"

Such frankness from a student did not go down well. Hermione could see in the sudden tightening of Snape's jaw that he didn't like it.

"The problem is more my Ministry file," he scowled. "If Lovegood has an entrée to Chubb, he may have other sources within the Ministry. _The Quibbler _can doubtless rehash a few stale facts into any amount of hokum."

"I did tell them that any kind of exposé might jeopardise your position, but Mr Lovegood was going on and on about the freedom of the press. What will you do, Sir – warn them off?"

Snape sat thinking, chin in hand, his fingers lightly smoothing the unaccustomed stubble.

"No," he said after a lengthy pause. "Intimidation will only convince them they are onto a scoop, and make them more determined to run with the story. I flatter myself that I would make the front page. I shall have to find them something else to write about…"

"You're not poisoning any more owls! Or causing any more natural disasters – not just to put a few reporters off the scent." Hermione would have liked to believe him incapable of such tactics. "Isn't there some mind-altering spell in one of those horrible books? Can't you use magic to make Luna's dad change his mind?"

"Obliviate him? It's not that simple. Next you'll be telling me to turn myself in, on the basis that I could reprogramme the consciousness of the Wizengamot. No, Dark magic will not be necessary in this instance."

"So what _are_ the books for, then?" Hermione asked boldly. Normally she would be wary of being so forthright, but tonight she was beginning to feel more relaxed. Maybe it was the endorphins… Snape had _chosen_ to visit her, he was sitting in her kitchen, he'd eaten her food, he was apparently in no great rush to leave and, now he felt better, he was more than usually disposed to talk. Was he so starved of conversation when he was with Voldemort?

"How does Harry plan to destroy Ravenclaw's Quill, if and when he finds it?" Snape answered the question with a question. Hermione met his eye with a hopeless shrug.

"Well, he was all right when he destroyed Riddle's diary, wasn't he? But he did have a basilisk fang – that probably helped. The magic didn't rebound on him or anything." _Not like Dumbledore's ring. What had gone wrong there?_

"Youthful arrogance!" Snape's scorn might have been directed at either Harry or Riddle. "You see, even the Dark Lord has made mistakes in his time. Though it doesn't happen often. Having taken the first step towards immortality, he neglected to safeguard the diary against its own destruction. But we cannot assume that the other objects will be equally vulnerable. It is conceivable, is it not, that in your exhaustive inquiries into the subject of Horcruxes, you may unearth further information which will be of assistance to Potter," he suggested obliquely, preparing the ground before he planted fresh ideas.

"Only if by some miracle I chance on… Oh. I see. You mean – the books? What? Do you want me to pass them on to Harry?"

"And give a child the key to Armageddon?" Snape was scathing. "I think not. Don't be naïve. Think of the wilful damage that boy wreaked with my old potions book: experimenting with unknown spells on fellow students. The magic in those two books is Darker than anything I used to dabble with. Do you think it wise to give that boy – 'Chosen One' or not - access to power of such magnitude?"

Humbly, Hermione shook her head. Snape was again right about Harry. Her friend was impetuous and irresponsible, and extraordinarily lucky. What else but luck had seen him through so many scrapes?

"Just as not all poisons have antidotes, there is no such thing as a universal Horcrux antidote," continued Snape, frowning. There had been no instant remedy available for him to save Dumbledore's hand. "Each artefact may be protected by a different curse. I shall need to analyse the texts and work out the most likely combinations of counter-curses." He sighed and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing tired eyes. "Merlin knows when I'll get the time. Those spells are what you may, eventually, pass on to Potter."

Hermione couldn't deny the logic in this.

"Yes, Harry'll buy that," she agreed. "Hey, I could tell him I tracked down a copy of one of the missing Bruno manuscripts, and that it contained some of his early spell-work." In her embarrassment at Snape's unexpected arrival, and with the burglary uppermost in her thoughts, her earlier research had slipped her mind. And yet she had been looking forward to discussing it with him. "It was fascinating, Sir, by the way – all that stuff about Flamel and Della Porta and Burning Bruno… Sir?"

Under the renewed intensity of Snape's stare, Hermione found herself faltering. His expression had that same mix of alarm and curiosity, which she had witnessed on the victims of Ginny's Bat Bogey Hex when first presented with a mirror, but without the accompanying panic.

"Refresh my memory, Miss Granger."

That, she recognised, was teacher-speak for one of two things: either 'I know this subject inside out, so woe betide you if you try to bluff me', or 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' Snape habitually used it in the former sense. But this time… Hermione experienced again the jolt of disillusion and disbelief she had felt on realising he had not been privy to Dumbledore's secret knowledge about the Horcruxes.

"But you _told_ me to read up on Nicolas Flamel and investigate his connections," she protested, aggrieved. "Do you mean to say I've spent all that time researching the wrong people? But it all made such sense. I was sure I was onto something. God, I'm an idiot!"

"Let me be the judge of that…"

**XXX**

"Fortuitous."

In predicting Snape's reaction, this was one of the few F words Hermione had not anticipated.

"Highly circumstantial, but plausible," Snape reflected. Hermione hadn't shown him all her notes, but she assured him she could back up her findings if he wished. _Was he impressed? Surely he must be impressed._ She basked in the absence of overt criticism.

"I haven't checked any international archives," she apologised. "I've never Apparated out of the country. And it seemed like a lot of effort – for what return? What more would it tell us? That other manuscripts are missing? Unless, by some fluke, I stumbled upon an extant copy of _'Animarum spoliator'_… If I were looking for Flamel's stuff, it would be a whole different story. His works crop up all over the place." Reciting from memory she listed names gleaned from various Indexes. "The Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris; the Biblioteca dell' Accademia dei Lincei in Rome… There are even some translations from the original French in the Rainsford Collection at Alnwick(4). For more on Bruno, though, my best bet looks like the University library in Venice, or Florence. But would it be worth it? What do you think, Sir? I'm really not sure. I haven't managed to get access to the International Database of Damaged, Stolen or Mislaid Rare Books and Manuscripts either - I reckon you need to be at least MI5 to get clearance. That'd probably show up a few more gaps, unless Ridd-, er, 'he' decided he'd got enough with the books he'd already pinched."

Throttling back on her enthusiasm – she knew Snape hated her showing off – Hermione looked to him for approval.

"As you say," he mused, "without the crucial Bruno tracts, your hypothesis does little more than establish a likely link between the two Italians and Flamel. One assumes that the Dark Lord consulted the Bruno texts for the methodology of Horcrux creation. There would have been other, openly wizard, precedents, of course, but even at that time such magic would have been confined to Restricted libraries; the Bruno would have been more readily accessible."

"But why go to the bother of stealing the books?" Hermione asked. "To prevent anyone else getting hold of the same information?"

Snape nodded in slow agreement.

"Quite possibly. We know he takes pride in the unique nature of his talent. He would wish to preserve that. Or he may have taken them purely as a souvenir of his quest. Albus noted certain 'magpie' tendencies - to retain objects belonging to his victims. He may have seen a kind of _empowerment_ in the possession of the manuscripts. But that is pure conjecture. Unless you have any more evidence?"

Hermione glowed. Snape was taking her work seriously and asking her for further input. Regretfully she shook her head. Snape didn't seem to mind. He was still toying with the available facts.

"We may, in any event, deduce that Albus learned about Horcruxes through his association with Flamel – at least enough to recognise their potential dangers – which accounts for his vehemence on the subject. I had suspected as much."

"So that was what you wanted me to find out? Why Professor Dumbledore hated Horcruxes?"

"Indirectly. But, Miss Granger, you have earned yourself an E for this project. My expectations were more modest. I had another connection in mind. Our last conversation reminded me of something Nicolas Flamel once said to me -"

"You _met_ Flamel?" Not often star-struck, Hermione nevertheless felt a vicarious awe at Snape's having been in the presence of the great alchemist.

"Briefly. Dumbledore introduced me once, in passing." Snape too betrayed a quiet pride.

"Did he talk to you? What did he say?" asked the girl eagerly.

Snape sat straighter, preening in the mere memory of Flamel, relishing the link, however tenuous. There can have been precious few brushes with fame during his career at Hogwarts.

"On hearing my name, Flamel greeted me with a quotation. He said, _'Severus, eh? And do you take after your Roman namesake? Do you also know 'how to act the part of both a fox and a lion'(_5?"

"What a very odd thing to say."

"He was an unusual man. It refers, he told me, to the Roman emperor Severus Septimus, a military tactician."

"I think I've heard of him." Hermione ransacked her memory for snippets from early history lessons. Didn't he have something to do with Hadrian's Wall? Or maybe that was another Septimus." Roman history, for Hermione, had been confined to the construction of a scale model of a fort and an overview of Caesar's Gallic wars. Plus a few episodes of _'I Claudius'_ on TV. "But that would have been before Flamel's time, surely?"

"Indeed." Snape nodded. "Flamel said an Italian acquaintance admired the Roman as a strategist, and used to describe him in those terms. To be compared to Septimus was considered a complement."

"And this acquaintance was?"

Snape met her eyes with a wry smile.

"My doppelgänger – Machiavelli."

Hermione blushed. _Was he pulling her leg?_ Of all the things they had spoken about during their kitchen-table conversations, why did he have to remember that one? She wished Ginny had never put the stupid idea into her head and that Snape had not glimpsed it there. But when she had looked up the famous Ghirlandaio(6) portrait of the tyrant in a book on Florentine old masters, the resemblance was undeniable. In the painting the hair was brushed back, the nose straighter – fair enough; but there was definitely something familiar about the eyes, the high, spare cheekbones, the tight lips and uncompromising expression. As she gazed at Snape across the table, the Italian statesman stared back.

_Why was he looking at her like that? _

"Flamel certainly met a lot of interesting people!" Suddenly self-conscious, she giggled, covering her confusion. "Think of who he might have known in all those lifetimes: Shakespeare, Newton, Michelangelo…"

In Snape's eyes, she recognised the simultaneous shocks of enjoyment and denial. Mutual awareness sucked the air out of the room.

"All the Machiavelli stuff - it was just a physical thing," she exclaimed, flustered, a Freudian slip. "You look like him, Sir, that's all. It's not a reflection on your -"

"On my principles? I'm gratified to hear it. Just my appearance, then, that you find amusing?" Suddenly harshness had replaced humour.

Flames of embarrassment were curling round Hermione's thighs and beyond, consuming her as completely as the fire that had burned the heretic Bruno at the stake. _Why was he doing this to her? Why was he being so cruel? Was it so wrong to enjoy each other's company?_

"I must go." The silence was terrible as he gathered up the two leather volumes, and pushed himself slowly to his feet, dragging against the weight of bone deep exhaustion. Hermione saw, contradicting his words, his weary reluctance to leave, to step out of this refuge and return to the fray. She moved with him to the door, wanting him to be gone, wanting him to stay where he was safe.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. _Why was she apologising? _She couldn't let him leave on this sour note. "Please, Sir - be careful…"

He couldn't respond, couldn't admit that he too had discovered an unexpected connection.

**End of chapter**

1 Totridge, Hawthornthwaite – peaks in the Lancashire fells to the west of Pendle. In THE CHOSEN I tentatively situated Neville's gran's cottage somewhere in the vicinity of Pendle.

2 This is taken directly from my own father, who (for reasons too embarrassing to mention) has always referred to my school friends as 'the gravy girls'.

3 Agatha Chubb. Referred to in HBP as the Ministry expert on ancient wizard artefacts.

4 Alnwick – couldn't resist including this reference, as Alnwick Castle was where several scenes of the first HP film were shot (also RPoT). The Flamel texts are in the private library of the Duke of Northumberland.

5 'the part of both a fox and a lion' – Machiavelli, 'The Prince' ch XIX

6 Ridolfo del Ghirlandaio (Florence, 1483-1561)

**Next chapter: It's a bad day for Neville when he gets visits from both Ron and Snape.**


	11. Third Time Lucky

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters etc are the property of JKR and her publishers. **

**A/N: Happy New Year everybody. One of my resolutions is to get this story up and posted. **

**Thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their comments at first draft stage, and to everyone who has been kind enough to review.**

**The story so far: While discussing the results of Hermione's research into Horcruxes, she and Snape are embarrassed to find themselves enjoying each other's company. Snape leaves rapidly. Hermione doesn't know if she will ever see him again. **

**So, if Snape can't talk to Hermione, who else can he turn to?**

**Chapter 11: THIRD TIME LUCKY**

Troubles, pondered Neville philosophically, like wise men, blind mice and little pigs, come in threes. Two down, one to go… Stumping his way along the leaf strewn path, which led to the shed at the end of his gran's garden where he kept his tools, he kept a wary eye heavenwards in case a rotten branch, or possibly even the sky itself, should choose that moment to fall upon him. So he failed to notice the watering-can. The metal spout cracked him in the shin as he knocked against it, and the empty can spun round and clattered into the path in front of his feet. Leaping, just too late, to avoid the handle, Neville tripped, dropped his tray of Shrivelfig seedlings, lurched sideways, pivoted an ungainly pole dance around a bean stick and found himself crashing backwards into the centre of a runner-bean wigwam.

For a minute or two, he lay there, winded, gazing up at the blue glimpses of remote and very static sky through the canopy of heart-shaped leaves. He fished out a scarlet bean petal that had somehow been sucked into his mouth during the fall, and pushed aside a cluster of long pods that were dangling in his face and spiking him in the nose. Levering himself off the ground by his elbows, he sat up in his leafy tent and chuckled. Well, if that was trouble number three… if that was the worst that Fate was going to throw at him, perhaps today wouldn't be so bad after all.

_Quite an interesting view from down here…_ Peering through the foliage, Neville noted the tell-tale white streaks of honey fungus at the base of an adjacent clump of rhubarb. _Have to dig those out and burn 'em… Crowns want splitting and mulching anyroad… Salsify needs hoeing again… Pesky slugs…_ Spotting three large, brown, slimy specimens feasting on the remains of the rhubarb stalks, Neville leaned across and skewered them with his wand. Trevor uttered a reproachful croak.

"Ooh er - sorry Trev; that's your job, isn't it?" He lifted the toad out of his pocket and placed him gently down on the soil. "There you go, boy. Do your stuff. If you're good, I might turn over a few damp stones for you later. Well, I don't know, Trev - it's been a funny old day…"

First there was all that business with Weasley. A right bally-hoo-hah that was. What was it all about? Neville was still puzzled. He ran a tentative tongue around his swollen lip and gum and experimentally wobbled the tooth. Still loose… Shame really – he'd been delighted to see Ron striding through the hollyhocks that morning; he didn't get many visitors in the holidays when he was at his gran's.

"Eigh-up, Ron," he'd greeted his friend warmly.

"Don't you 'gee-up' me, you Lanky Lothario. What d'you think I am – a donkey?" That was when the shouting began. "What's your game, eh? How does a gimp like you do it? Chuntering Chervil? I'll give you Chuntering Chervil!"

"That's champion of you, Ron, but don't trouble. I grow my own, you see, and it's coming on grand… I could cut you a bunch to take home," suggested Neville politely, perplexed by Ron's agitation. He was very upset about something. _Could it be Apparition sickness?_ Hermione had told him Ron had only just passed his test. If it made him, Neville, puke, maybe the effect it had on Ron was to make him aggressive. Or had he splinched his brain ever so slightly, and got confused? Or it could be sunstroke – it was warmer down south where the Weasleys lived. Or had he been overdoing the Love potions again? "You'll be wanting a talk, then?" he asked carefully.

"Oh, don't come the raw prawn with me," snarled Ron. "You know what I mean."

Neville didn't at all, though he was beginning to suspect it might have something to do with Hermione. She wouldn't have told Ron about Snape, surely?

"What did you say to her - 'Come outside and I'll show you my onions'?" Ron sneered.

A sore point. Neville's face clouded.

"I've had White Fly in my sets this season. A right poor do. Ruined a perfectly good crop. Funnily enough, the leeks and shallots are fine. You'd think -"

"Stuff your shallots!" Ron bellowed.

"Ah, well, you'd be better off stuffing peppers or marrows; tomatoes even, so long as you go for one of the beef varieties, not a salad tomato or one of the cherries. For taste you can't beat _Ailsa Craig_, or _Craigella_ – now that's an improved strain: same taste, but greater resistance to greenback." Neville had done his best to be patient and helpful, but Ron didn't seem especially interested in vegetables. Red faced and blustering, he had squared up to Neville and pulled out his wand. Angry spits of steam and lurid green sparks were shooting from the tip.

"You're a worm, d'you know that, Longbottom? What does she see in a geek like you? Don't you play by the rules? They're basic enough – I'd have thought even a herby dung-brain could get his head round them. You don't shaft a mate! _Got that?_ **Got that?"**

The wand spluttered alarmingly as Ron took aim.

Neville had never expected to be using his Defence skills on one of his friends.

"_Expelliarmus! Protego!_" he cried, dodging to one side, plunging his hand into his pocket and brandishing… his dibber. Out of the corner of his eye he could see his mud-caked wand lying at the end of a row of Shrivelfig seedlings he had been planting out. "Uh-oh."

Ron uttered a snort of contempt and spat on the ground at Neville's feet.

"That's what I think of you, Longbottom. You're bloody pathetic. Hell, why do I bother. Get out of my way!"

It was as Ron pushed roughly past that his elbow connected with Neville's face and mouth, and knocked out his front tooth. Neville afterwards had staunchly maintained that it was an accident.

XXX

"Chew on a clove and suck a nutmeg," Mrs Longbottom prescribed. She had unwrapped the tooth, the lonely white peg, from the cabbage leaf and, dusting it with the same rooting powder Neville used on his stem cuttings, 'replanted' it in her grandson's bruised gum. Then she had popped an aromatic black carpet tack and a small wooden gobstopper into Neville's mouth and told him not to crunch. The sickening smoke-wood pungency of the spices lingered in his taste buds, flavouring his saliva, tainting every swallow.

"Cloves? A clove of garlic, more like. That'd see the boy right," cackled a voice from the parlour. "You won't be kissing any sweethearts today, my lad."

Neville, who was already feeling that the day had got off to a poor start, realised that it was about to get immeasurably worse. He had forgotten that his gran was hosting a meeting of the Grannies Grimm – or, as they preferred to call themselves, the Pendle and District Witches' Action Committee. Too late he remembered there'd been a reason for his wanting to get out into the garden especially early this morning. He shuffled after his gran into the rarely used front room, coughing on the concentrated scents of old-womanhood – lavender, peppermint and mothballs - and nodded to the assembled crones, not risking a smile – the combination of nutmeg and swollen lip was a dangerous drool hazard.

Of the five witches ensconced in the parlour, Neville recognised only three. They all, unfortunately, seemed to know him.

"Let's be 'aving you, me duck. Stand as where we can get a proper look at you," instructed an extremely ample old woman who went by the title The Widow Dropsical. Neville never knew if this was her name or a medical description, so he avoided addressing her directly wherever possible. Sullenly wishing himself elsewhere, he paraded for inspection, to clucks of antique approval.

"A fine lad you've got there, Augusta. Favours his father, don't he now? Wouldn't you say so, Augusta – that he's got the look of your Frank, about the ears? Didn't we always say, Eggie -" The widow turned to her companion on the sofa, Eglantine Dandiprat, a walnut-faced witch in a sea-blue robe. "- didn't we say the lad'd come good after that, erm, _slow start_… I recall Algie – or was it Enid – we was walking the front at Blackpool at the time - saying to me as how -"

"Quite so," interrupted Mrs Longbottom, coming to Neville's rescue and shooing him out of the limelight. He took refuge in the corner, perching on the empty seat next to one of his grandmother's oldest (in every sense of the word) friends, Garrula Tattle who, despite her name, had remained silent throughout and appeared content to observe the proceedings from the sidelines, sitting quietly and sucking her remaining teeth. Neville singled her out as a kindred spirit.

"Ahem. Ladies! We were discussing," his grandmother continued firmly, calling the meeting to order, "the rerouting of a Muggle footpath on Pendle Barrow. The proposed alteration will send the path within twenty feet of the Sagmen Stone which, as you know, is a sacred site, and should at all costs be protected from Muggle incursion. Are we all agreed?"

Murmurs of assent.

"Does anyone have any suggestions?"

"Apply for Unplottable status?" suggested an angular, nervy witch Neville had never seen before, but who nevertheless looked vaguely familiar.

"Ship in a few unicorns and get the Magical Creatures chaps to set up a Muggle repelling zone. It would qualify for sanctuary status," said another new face.

"Or Lizard Orchidsh," Neville lisped. "That'd do the shame job, but the Mugglesh would do the protecting themshelves. Very rare are Lizard Orchidsh." He could Apparate down to Kent, go to the Royal St George Golf Club(1), borrow a plant or two and miraculously resite them on the Barrow. They'd be protected under the Wildlife and Conservation Act.

"Need more'n a few poxy plants to see off them Muggles." The witches dismissed Neville's suggestion without a second thought.

"Panic," said Eglantine sardonically. "That usually works with Muggles. A few well-directed rumours about some animal disease crossing the species barrier and becoming transmissible to humans – something along the lines of Bunnitosis. All we'd need is a few dead rabbits and a suggestible reporter and they'd be staying away in droves."

This idea was greeted with a gargle of laughter.

"Beast of Bodmin," wheezed The Widow. "Keeps 'em off the Moor, don't it? Get ourselves our own beast. Frighten 'em off. Work a treat."

"And what did you have in mind?" Mrs Longbottom asked coolly. "A Chimaera?"

With a chesty grunt The Widow heaved herself up on the seat. Her cushion-like cowl of a neck draped in plump pink folds from chin to clavicle, making the very existence of her jawbone a matter of some conjecture. As she leaned her girth forward over fleshy, splayed legs, her caught robe hitched up to reveal thickened ankles bulging from disproportionately small, tightly laced boots.

"Now Augusta, it baint as daft nor it sounds. Could be a plum of a job for one of them deservin' undesirables. A werewolf, for instance. Only need to be part-time. Savage the occasional sheep; howl a bit… Money for old rope."

"We wish to deter the Muggles, dear, not decimate them." Eglantine was delicately discouraging. She turned towards the quiet corner. "Didn't I read somewhere that you had a tame werewolf at that school of yours?"

Neville, not expecting to be drawn into the discussion, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Lisping thickly past his tooth he replied as clearly as he could manage.

"Yesh, yesh we did. Professhor Lupin. In my third year he taught ush Defenshe. He was nishe."

"That's Hogwarts, is it?" the nervous witch asked sharply. Her hand twitched a little as she spoke, and she crossed her skinny arms, pulling herself fiercely in and together. "I've heard some strange stories about Hogwarts recently. Very strange indeed. It doesn't sound frightfully safe."

"Shocking about Dumbledore. A great loss." Shocking. Dreadful. Outrageous. The crones chorused their distress.

"But from what I've heard he was a very _peculiar_ man," persisted the thin witch, whom Neville was mentally dubbing 'Niggle'. "You've just said he had a werewolf on the staff. Well, I have it on good authority that he harbours known felons on the premises. Makes a habit of it. And I don't just mean the murderer – Snoop, Snipe, whatever his name is."

Any goodwill Neville might have had towards this stranger was polluted now by her ignorance and prejudice. He said nothing.

"There's a giant there with a criminal record – spent time in Azkaban. Isn't that so?" The question spat towards the boy like a poisoned dart from a blowpipe.

"If you mean Hagrid, he'sh only a half giant. And he'sh right friendly," Neville mumbled.

"Ah, but it's not only giants and werewolves, is it? One might forgive an isolated incident. But I know for a fact he had a centaur on the staff, and a ghost. And then he employed that atrocious writer chap who was flavour of the month at one time. What did he think he was doing – turning the school into a rest home for neurotic celebrities? The fellow's banged up in St Mungo's now – where he should have been all along."

Neville didn't have time to be offended by the last comment before Eglantine added her pennyworth.

"And, remember, there was that dreadful accident at the Tournament a couple of years ago. Reflects on the organisation. And when it comes down to it, it's the headmaster's responsibility."

The Widow Dropsical, like warm brie, spread a little further on the sofa.

"There's folks as say," she hinted suggestively, "that our Dumbledore weren't averse to partaking of a drop or two…"

"Dumbledore?"

"A drinking man?"

"Happen he'd slip out of an evening, so I've heard tell. Down the _Hogs_ _Head_. Could be in there for _hours_ at a stretch."

"You don't say!"

"Aye. I do. And that's not the half of it…"

The group condensed around the gossip. The Widow cast a sly glance, assessing her audience.

"You tell me what a man like that is doing, taking students out of school on special trips – just the two of 'em. I ask you! Ain't seemly. Nobody knowing where they went? Probably had a room somewhere – cosy like. He was seen an' all…"

"Seen where?"

"'Twere a while back. Thought it were suspicious at the time, but you knows me – I don't poke my wand in where it's not wanted… A grown wizard visiting Muggle orphanages…"

"He never did!"

"He did an' all. Merlin's own truth! And the night of the killin' he were legless. Couldn't stand on his own two feet. Boy had to hold him up, he were so sozzled. Or so I've heard."

The Widow settled back to reap the fruits of her calumny.

"A man like that shouldn't be in charge of children. It's scandalous!" shrieked Niggle.

"Poppycock!" Augusta Longbottom dismissed the slander. "Albus Dumbledore was a first class headmaster and an excellent, honourable wizard. This nonsense is pure hearsay."

"I says what I hears," insisted Dropsical, sitting by her story.

Neville couldn't believe his ears: that the revered Professor Dumbledore, whose awesome reputation had, as far as he was concerned, in no way been diminished by his ignominious death, could be the subject of this biased, ill-informed, defamatory attack.

"Hey, um, excushe me, but I shay…"

Heads turned, defying him to spoil the most scurrilously delicious story they had heard for months. Neville quailed, but spoke up for what he believed, what he _knew_ to be right.

"Thish ish all wrong. Just becaushe Professhor Dumbledore took Harry with him that one time, it doeshn't mean to shay he made a habit of it. Dumbledore was a good headmashter, he undershtood shtuff. For a grown up, he was alwaysh really fair, and wise -"

"Oh sure, and 'bonny and blithe and good and gay'? And 'born on the Sabbath day' too, I'll be bound!" scoffed the witch. "So he **did** escort unaccompanied students off the premises?" Niggle gnawed at the truth like a rat with a rind.

"Yesh, but only -"

"Dereliction of duty! Abandons his post and returns to find the Dark Mark over the school. If he weren't dead, he'd be in Azkaban. I'd see to it myself."

At this juncture, Mrs Longbottom intervened, tapping the witch on the shoulder.

"A word, Invidia, if you would be so kind. In the kitchen."

Under the general furore of speculation and aspersion, Garrula Tattle winked a sunken eye at Neville. Then, like some ancient edifice with crumbling foundations, she toppled sideways towards him.

"Dark Mark, heh, heh," she whispered confidentially. "I saw me a Dark Mark once. Fearsome it was. Scrawled on the sky in death's own hand. Once you've seen the Dark Mark, my boy, you don't forget in a hurry."

"I'll thank you, Garrula, not to go filling my grandson's head with a lot of moonshine. There's been quite enough muck-raking for one day." Mrs Longbottom returned, carrying a plate of macaroons. She lowered her voice to Neville. "Invidia's never been able to rise above the fact that she was passed over for the Arithmancy professorship, and that Dumbledore then had the temerity to employ her cousin. She'll bad-mouth Hogwarts any chance she gets."

Invidia Vector! It suited her. Though, reflected Neville, so did 'Niggle'… Mrs Tattle was shuffling her teeth in preparation for a macaroon.

"I was just telling the lad about the time I saw the Mark. Must be nigh on seventeen, eighteen years ago. Away in the distance it was, mind, but I saw it as clear as I'm seeing you. Back in the bad old days. Never thought I'd live to see the like again."

Mrs Longbottom thrust the plate of freshly baked biscuits into Neville's hands.

"Make yourself useful, Neville, and hand these round. And then – didn't you tell me you were potting out your Shrivelfigs? They need to be in the earth before noon."

Neville seized the offered escape route, grateful for an excuse to leave, especially as the conversation was now drifting away from Dumbledore's misdemeanours to the perpetually engrossing topics of rheumatics and bunions. It was only as he plodded towards the shed, ruminating over what third catastrophe Destiny had devised to sabotage his Wednesday that the thought occurred to him: had his grandmother wanted to get him out of the way?

XXX

Neville was still sitting cross-legged amongst the beans, strangely content, contemplating the wonderful view like the dormouse amidst the delphiniums(2), when a shadow fell across the vegetable patch. Squinting into the midday sun, all Neville could see was a tall silhouette. Ron? Instinctively he cupped a hand in front of his mouth and grabbed his wand.

"If you've come back to have another go at me, Weashley, I'm warning you, I've… I've got my real wand now," he declared with some bravado, given the tactical disadvantages of his position.

"Is there a gnome shortage? Get up, Longbottom, and stop threatening me with that kebab."

The sound of Snape's voice wilted Neville's hopes for the day like an outbreak of blight. He scrambled to his feet, at the same time trying to scrape the impaled slugs off his wand. A visit from Snape! Fate had saved the worst 'til last.

"Professhor! I thought you were Weashley."

"That seems to be a common misconception," said Snape dryly. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, stop mauling that wand. You're an insult to magic." A muttered incantation and the slugs lay in frazzled, blackened curls on the ground. "Watch and learn." Neville nodded appreciatively, but he knew he'd have forgotten the spell by the end of the afternoon. Snape glanced sharply back over his shoulder in the direction of the cottage.

"It'sh all right, Shir. They can't shee ush up here. The garden'sh not overlooked." It was one of the reasons Neville liked it.

"Don't mumble, boy. Enunciate."

"I'm shorry, Shir." Neville hadn't mastered the technique of speaking with his tongue pressed as a prop against his rootless tooth. He wiped his chin on his sleeve.

"Hit you, did he?" The master had broken up too many teenage brawls not to recognise the signs. With unconcealed distaste he placed the tip of his wand on Neville's mouth and peeled back the top lip. "_Dentifirme!_"

Neville felt the tooth bond into position as the magic spread through the socket and up into the jaw itself. Snape brushed aside the boy's whimper of thanks.

"I refuse to converse with you slurping and slavering like a slobbering imbecile."

_Converse? What could Snape want to talk to him about? Had he come to return the Borometz tail, to pass it on to Harry?_ Neville couldn't think of any other reason. _Unless… Had he brought a message from Draco? Perhaps he… _No. Neville knew he was only fabricating reasons to return to Malfoy Manor and see Narcissa again. Working under-cover and discovering the mythical creature were the most exciting things that had ever happened to him. But Snape wouldn't need his help in contacting the wife of a Death Eater. Not now he was openly one of them. Neville accepted, realistically, that he had had his fifteen minutes of fame, however anonymous.

Confrontations with Snape had traditionally meant trouble for the young Gryffindor. Yet it was barely more than a fortnight since the man had been in such a state that, despite their less than amicable history, Neville had been moved to give him the lucky talisman. Could he have forgotten so soon? Neville's gaze snailed from Snape's black boots, up his body until finally, reluctantly, he was looking his former professor in the eye. Out in the open Snape wasn't quite as scary as in the confines of the classroom. Broad daylight accentuated the lines on his face, as pale as a cave crab that has never seen the sun.

"We could sit down, Sir, if you like – over there." Neville indicated two inverted half barrels which he had been scouring the previous day to eradicate Bundimuns. "The wood's impregnated with _ContraBund_, but they should be OK to sit on. My juniper bushes are overdue for repotting; I'm keeping them container grown…" Neville made nervous chat, watching the man as he lowered himself onto the makeshift wooden stool and sat, eyes closed to the glare, head slightly lifted, allowing the warmth to seep into his sun-starved skin.

"I expect it's good to get away, isn't it, Sir?" Having no other point of reference, Neville tended to picture Snape as still living in a dreary dungeon, or else back at Spinner's End – neither place comfortable or salubrious. Snape opened tired eyes.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, it is." Then, summoning himself, he spoke more formally. "I am obliged to make certain sorties from time to time, to obtain fresh ingredients, but such excursions are purely for potions business." _Or to communicate with Miss Granger_.

Neville nodded; he knew about potions business: picking fluxweed by moonlight, or searching for Augurey eggs, or wading knee-deep in boggy marsh water collecting swamp leeches. None of it could be described as a pleasure.

"Well, if I've got anything growing here you can use…" he offered in a non-specific way. "Actually, Sir," he brightened, "I've got some belladonna essence distilling in the shed; and I milked a Bubotuber last week. I know you can get stuff like that at the Apothecary, but fresh is better, isn't it? I'll fetch them." He trotted off to the shed, anxious to be helpful, even more anxious to discover the purpose of Snape's visit, and figuring that a placatory offering couldn't do any harm. Returning a few moments later, he placed a couple of containers on the ground at Snape's feet and began to unscrew the lid of a third – a pot of green, gelatinous slime. "You should try this, Sir. Those scratches look right sore. It's my gran's special Goo – champion stuff. Last Monday, I spiked a garden fork clean through my foot, but this healed it up in two shakes…" …_of a lamb's tail. Would Snape be mentioning the magical Vegetable Lamb or not?_

"Ingredients?" Like a master perfumer, Snape sniffed the pot, sifting and splitting the mixture into its component scents, chords and tones, assessing its unique formula, its magi-chemical identity. Satisfied, he dabbed a small blob onto the back of his hand and rubbed the gel into the raw line of one inflamed gouge. Nothing.

"Ineffective quack remedy," was his scornful verdict. "Stick to growing greens, Longbottom."

Neville stood there, crestfallen.

"It must have gone off, Sir, from being too long in the shed. Or got contaminated. I'm sorry, Sir. I thought -"

"It is immaterial." Snape dismissed the grazes impatiently as an inconvenience. "That is not why I've come."

From an inside pocket he extracted a thin, white scrap of fur. Neville experienced a rush of fond excitement at the sight of the Tail.

"Did it work, Sir? Did it… help?" _Did it make you feel better?_ Neville sought Snape's eyes for confirmation of the fleece's legendary recuperative powers. It was, he discovered, vitally important to him that the magic of the Borometz was more than a myth. Inside him, dread and doubt raged: the potions expert was bound to denounce this, too, as quackery.

"It helped." Snape saw relief and a semi-paternal pride bloom across the boy's open, good-natured features. "That's why I'm here today, Longbottom. I wish to discuss the Borometz."

**End of Chapter.**

**1 Royal St George Golf Club – single known UK habitat of the endangered Lizard Orchid, _Himantoglossum hircinum_.**

**2 Dormouse – cf. A.A. Milne : The Dormouse and the Doctor**

**Next Chapter: Neville tells Hermione of his conversation with Snape and has some distressing news.**


	12. Hook Line and Sinker

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters etc are the property of JKR and her publishers.**

**A/N: Many thanks for all your reviews and comments. I'm glad most of you seem to approve of my version of Neville. **

**Thanks to Duj and Cecelle for proof-reading the first draft.**

**More Neville in this chapter. He's trying so hard to do what's right…**

**Chapter 12:HOOK, LINE AND SINKER**

"Sell the story to _The Quibbler_? Neville, you can't!" Hermione protested, her voice strident with disbelief.

"Aye. Happen you're right." Hands on hips, Neville took a long, panoramic look around the Grangers' back garden, surveying, estimating, checking the direction of the sun, the prevailing breeze. Although Hermione had dropped in on him more than once, this was the first time he had Apparated down to visit her at home. "South facing, is it? Pity this is all laid to lawn – you've got enough space for an allotment here."

"Dad likes to practise his putting," Hermione muttered. "They don't have time for much gardening, as such. One token row of French beans … Though the way dad talks, you'd think we were totally self-sufficient. Mum does the pots on the patio, and the baskets. But, Neville, about the paper… So you're not -"

"Luna says they don't pay for articles – contributors do it for free, so it's not a question of selling. She says it's all about 'an altruistic intellectual ideal and our duty to the greater Truth'." He was obviously quoting; that wasn't Neville's turn of phrase at all.

The downward quirk of Hermione's lips and accompanying disdainful snort showed only too clearly what she thought of Luna's Truth.

"You've seen Luna already? You don't waste time. What did she say?"

"Well," Neville deliberated. "You know Luna. Course, I didn't say it were anything to do with the Borometz. I kind of let on that I'm close to propagating a Mute Mandrake – not that I am; chance'd be a fine thing! – so as I could sound her out about the paper. But all she could talk about was some giant moth no one's ever heard of. Lives on certain late-flowering continental veronica(1) hybrids, she said. Oh, that and the spell-, spell- something." In wizard circles, a connection with spells didn't greatly narrow the field. He tapped his forehead with his fist as though that might dislodge the elusive memory. It echoed alarmingly. "Oh, something to do with salt, anyway. She said summat about a salt mine."

"Preferably in Siberia," Hermione sniped. "Do you mean Speleotherapy? Healing with salt crystals? That's the kind of new-age tosh Luna would go for."

"Aye. That's the one. Come to think of it, she did try to present me with a lump of rock. _The Quibbler's_ going to give away a free sample with the next issue. Just a small one, mind." He continued to stroll towards the end of the garden, Hermione at his side seething with impatience. But, she knew, it was impossible to rush Neville. If he had something to tell her he would get around to it in his own good, plodding time. When she next looked, he had stopped under the cedar tree and was poking his wand into a tiny niche in the bark. After some waggling and probing, he put his ear to the other end of the wand.

"Neville, what on earth are you doing?"

"Eh? What say?"

_Don't you dare give me the 'I can't hear you; I've got a wand in my ear' line, _she thought in vexation. Then, remembering it was Neville she was talking to, not Ron, she leaned in closer.

"What can you hear?"

He grinned back at her.

"Wand picks up the vibrations of the sap. You know how if you put a shell to your ear you can hear the sea? Similar thing. In spring it fair sounds like a steam train as the sap rises. Can be useful to know the sap content, say, if you're stripping the bark -"

"You'd better not strip anything here. Dad'd be furious."

"You could always blame it on Bowtruckles, or Mokes," said Neville placidly, standing away from the trunk and wiping both sticky ends of his wand on his jumper.

Squirrels, maybe. Mr Granger wouldn't know a Bowtruckle if it bit him, and he would be more likely to attribute bark peeling to wanton vandalism than some unheard of magical pest.

"But what about this article, Neville? Why've you changed your mind? When I suggested going to _The_ _Daily Prophet(__2_, you wouldn't have a bar of it." Her outrage, she had to admit, was hypocritical. Having wandered round almost the entire garden they were now on the homeward stretch, heading back towards the house. Neville bent to sniff a rose, cupping the heavy, peach-coloured head tenderly in his hand. Somewhere nearby a gate banged and a dog barked. The boy straightened up with a start.

"You're not expecting Ron, are you?"

His worried expression suddenly reminded Hermione of Wilbur the pig, before the spider, Charlotte, saves him from being sent to market.(3)

"Ron? I doubt it. Haven't seen him since last Sunday. He's been a total pain lately."

Neville nodded as if he understood. Back on the patio, he plonked himself lazily down at the garden table while Hermione scurried inside. Boys, she reasoned, always expected snacks.

"Moss or pre-formed peat liner?" he queried on her return.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The baskets." He cocked his head towards one of Mrs Granger's hanging baskets, suspended above the back door, a minor jungle planet of acrylic coloured petals and trailing foliage. "If it's lined with sphagnum moss, you want to save it at the end of the season and dig it in as a soil conditioner. Hang on to those seeds too – the nasturtiums. Use them in hair rinses, or infusions. The geranium flowers an' all – make a good mouthwash."

Hermione was pretty sure that, come the first frost of autumn, her Mum would toss the whole basket into the dustbin, and buy a new one from the bedding plant nursery next Spring, but she didn't want to dint Neville's enthusiasm.

"I can always tell when you've been at your gran's." She watched indulgently as he rotated the plateful of 'healthy' nibbles, hoping to find a Custard Cream or a Cauldron Cake lurking beneath the lengths of celery and sliced apple. "I don't know what's got into Ron, these days."

"Happen it's losing his Mum." Neville crunched on a carrot stick. Detecting an uncalled-for cynicism in her friend's tone, Hermione gave him a quizzical look.

"Yes, that's hardly going to go away in a hurry, is it? It's so awful, not knowing, and not being able to _do_ anything. But it's more than that – it's…well, honestly, I think he's feeling rather left out. I mean, Harry's off all over the place chasing – er – clues, to track down You-Know-Who. And I've been busy doing those errands for Snape… I finally got to see McGonagall, by the way. It was no go; she was really crabby. You know, talking about Luna - I bumped into her at Hogwarts. She was there with her Dad."

"Yeah, he said," Neville agreed, rather too readily.

"You met Mr Lovegood too, did you? Now you can see where -" Hermione stopped, mid-sentence, as intuition kicked in, and glared at Neville accusingly. "You've seen Snape!" she declared, confident in her instincts. "Why didn't you say?" _Was this what Neville had been working up to?_ "And he's… Oh, Neville, it's Snape, isn't it? He's the one who's put you up to this crazy scheme with _The Quibbler_? Of all the -! How could he be so selfish? So, what does he want? For you to give them the Borometz story as a decoy, to sidetrack them away from their Snape exposé? He's got a nerve! What does he think he's doing – saving his own neck by throwing you to the media wolves? You can refuse. You don't have to do it, just because Snape tells you to. I hope you told him where to get off. You did, didn't you, Neville? You did say no? Neville?"

XXX

(flashback)

…It was several moments before Snape spoke. Neville, sitting on his barrel, waited. With the unhurried patience of one accustomed to watching petals unfurl and seed pods swell, he waited, making no judgements, no assumptions. Some things were difficult to say; he could bide his time, until Snape felt ready. He watched a conflict ripen into resolve.

"But for an accident of birth, Longbottom, your existence and Potter's could have been very different." A smooth beginning. Snape's delivery gave the disarming impression of being both casual and intense.

"The Prophecy, Sir?" Neville was surprised.(4) He had been expecting the Borometz.

"Precisely. You're aware of that, are you? But for an arbitrary interpretation by the Dark Lord, your position and Potter's might have been reversed."

"Bally good job they weren't." Neville had few illusions: he was no basilisk slayer, no heroic, problem-solving risk taker. The mere thought of the Tri-wizard tasks brought him out in a cold sweat – he wasn't a good swimmer, and as for dragon taming! He'd played his part at the battle of the Ministry and again on the Tower, but only as one of the team.

"One wonders," Snape went on to speculate, "how you might have acquitted yourself, had the situation arisen."

"I don't know, Sir."

"You don't know. No, one rarely knows the heights - or depths - of which one is capable, until the challenge presents itself."

"I'm not cut out for anything dangerous, Sir." To Neville the conversation was taking an ominous turn.

"Yet your Defence skills were improving." Snape's eyes narrowed. Perhaps the sun was too bright.

"Yes, Sir. If you say so, Sir."

"You are content, then, for Potter to win the laurels for his role in the fight against the forces of darkness?"

Neville rejected the implication. _What was the man trying to do – stir up resentment against Harry? _

"Rather him than me, Sir. Harry's more the type."

"In your opinion, Potter's a born hero?"

_Had he said that?_

"Not at first, Sir. But he's grown up with the idea - ever since he came to Hogwarts… He's sort of grown into the part. And now he's the Chosen One, isn't he? He's famous."

Snape stilled the twitch of animosity provoked by the reference to Harry's elevated status. He regarded Neville – a long, thoughtful, appraising look.

"It strikes me, Longbottom, that Hogwarts has room for more than one, ah, _celebrity_."

"Sir?"

"You consider that your limited prowess at Defence disqualifies you for fame. That you would not be worthy of the honour. Noble sentiments! But…" Snape's voice became more persuasive. "Would you be averse to gaining recognition for one of your own undisputed achievements? Something for which you _and you alone_ can claim and deserve the credit?"

"Well, if I ever did anything that good…" Neville wavered. "But it's hardly likely, is it, Sir?"

Snape let his gaze travel slowly through the rows of vegetables and fruit bushes, past the herb borders, back towards the Longbottoms' cottage. He appeared to be thinking.

"You would, nevertheless, like to make your grandmother proud? And," he added tellingly, "your _parents_?"

"Yes, Sir," Neville whispered. Shoots of guilt and filial duty were twisting round him like vines of Venomous Tentacula.

"Or do you feel, boy, that their unfortunate condition absolves you from your responsibilities? Are you content to let the name of Longbottom founder in mediocrity? You are a Pureblood. Has that ceased to have any meaning? Would your parents be sanguine in the knowledge that their son is a lily-livered laughing stock?"

The tendrils tightened.

"No, Sir."

Snape sat up, easing himself back on the barrel, and stretched out his legs. Neville had seen that studied nonchalance before – usually as a precursor to being given a detention. He prepared himself for something critical, trenchant and only partially warranted.

"You are not wholly without talent, Longbottom."

"No, Sir. Thank you, Sir." _What?_ _The sun must be making him light-headed._

"You have a singular aptitude for herbology."

Neville blinked and blushed.

"And your achievement in cultivating the Borometz was remarkable. In this day and age, such a feat is unique."

"Oh, I were lucky, Sir. That's all." Bashful now.

"Luck be damned! No false modesty. How many people, Longbottom, would have a) recognised a Borometz plant in the first place; b) nurtured it to fruition; c) tended the beast through to maturity, and d) had the herbological skill to harvest the Lamb? You were chosen for this honour, boy. Tell me, truthfully, do you not feel you _deserve_ some recognition?"

"I… Um… It were enough, Sir, just seeing the creature – that were a privilege in itself. And then, if I've been able to put it to good use… Well, that's its own reward, Sir."

Leaning forwards once more, Snape dropped his head into his hands, running the palms over his temples, pushing back the lank hair that had swung down into his face, smoothing away fatigue and exasperation. He sighed.

"But would it not give you some satisfaction to have your success acknowledged? To be accorded some respect? You cannot pretend it is not galling to be patronised by the likes of Potter and, ah, _Weasley_…"

_…you're a gimp, a worm, a geek, a herby dung-brain…_

_Yes, it would be excellent to rub Ron's nose in it for once – there was no denying that._

"Listen, Longbottom. Commendable as it was to preserve the privacy of the creature while it was alive, what harm could it do now to share this phenomenon with a wider audience? The worlds of science, herbology and magical folklore will be in your debt."

_What harm could it do?_

"Do you mean publicity, Sir? The papers and all?"

Snape nodded encouragement.

"I believe _The Quibbler_ might adopt a more sensitive approach than _The_ _Daily Prophet_."

"Well, if you really think people would be interested, Sir…"

"Indeed I do. It just so happens that such an arrangement might be mutually beneficial…"

XXX

Hermione covered her eyes and shook her head slowly from side to side in mock despair.

"Oh Neville, Neville – what are we going to do with you?"

Listening to his account of Snape's temptation, Hermione's expression had progressed from one of thunderous indignation, through frowning disapproval, to frank admiration. Snape had played Neville so shrewdly. Like a trout.

"Neville, you've taken the bait, hook, line and sinker! Couldn't you see that he was manipulating you? God, but he's devious!"

Neville made an apologetic little face.

"I thought it were fishy – him being so nice all of a sudden. I should've guessed. Well, I did guess – sort of. But, you know, Hermione, when Snape gets his claws into you, it's like a sneeze: you know it's coming, and there's not a thing you can do to stop it. And when he explained to me about how _The Quibbler's_ article on him could be so damaging, I thought, 'Why not? What have I got to lose?'"

"But it won't prevent Mr Lovegood from running the other feature. All you're doing is supplying him with extra copy."

"Aye. We talked about that. Seems Snape wants me to spin out the whole process for as long as possible. That'll buy time. I'll be able to chat to Luna and suss out exactly where their sympathies lie. If they're on Snape's side, maybe I can persuade them to ditch the Snape story. If not, I can always negotiate: refuse to give them exclusive rights if they proceed, or threaten to back out. Either way, it'll get Snape extra time to come up with an alternative."

Hermione was still dubious.

"Neville, are you sure, absolutely positive, that you're OK with this?" She touched him on the arm, gazing searchingly into his face. "This is the biggest scoop _The Quibbler's_ had since Harry gave his interview. Mr Lovegood would give his eye teeth to get his hands on a Borometz. They'll really go to town on it. Do you want to become public property?"

"What harm can it do? Course, I'll have to gloss over some of the details – keep Malfoy Manor out of it, for starters. No, I don't mind. It'll be champion to have got something right for a change. And if it helps Snape…"

The genuineness and simplicity of this response made Hermione want to hug him.

"So he Apparated to your house. You're honoured! Wasn't your grandmother there?"

"In a meeting, with a load of old hags. Slagging Dumbledore off something chronic, they were. Did you know Professor Vector had a cousin?"

No, and Hermione didn't much care either.

"Snape found me up in the garden. I felt a right prat – I'd tripped over the degging can(5), see, and -"

"How did he seem?" she interrupted. "Apart from scheming and manipulative?" _Machiavellian._ "When he was here on Tuesday he was shattered. Do you think he's all right?"

Neville was working his way through the remaining apple slices. He munched thoughtfully on a mouthful before answering.

"He showed me this champion charm for frazzling slugs. But, for a while it were like he just wanted to sit. Not doing anything – just being there. Funny that. Anyway, what's it to you, Hermione? You seem right bothered. Going soft on Snape, eh? All these secret briefings giving you ideas above your station?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Brown curls tossed back in denial, but the colour had risen in her cheeks. "It's not like that. It's… Well, you saw what he was like at Spinner's End. You felt sorry for him too. You must have, otherwise you wouldn't have given him the Tail. And now I feel we've made a kind of commitment to help him, so we're bound to follow it through. We got ourselves into this, and now we're involved, whether we like it or not."

"Oh, sure." For an easy-going, unsuspicious guy, Neville sounded surprisingly sceptical. Hermione felt compelled to justify herself further.

"Don't you feel flattered, Neville, that he's come to us? That he trusts us? Don't you think that for someone like Snape to trust anybody is incredible? Don't you want to do your best to deserve that trust?"

"Aye. I do. But…" _It's not like he's got much choice._ _That wasn't what I was asking, and you know it, Hermione Granger. _Neville met her eye soundly and Hermione caved.

"Oh, all right. So I've enjoyed him coming here and talking to me. What's wrong with that? So I'm starting to care about what happens to him. So what? It doesn't mean I'm in love with the man. It's like I said, I feel _involved_."

Neville could accept that. In his own small way he felt involved too. He returned to her earlier question.

"Strikes me this whole business is, like, wearing him down. Oh aye, he's all right. But he's not -" he floundered for the word, not sure exactly what he was trying to convey. "He's not _happy_. Why would he be? Um… Has he said anything to you about dragons?"

"Dragons!"

"Don't get yourself in a tizzy. It could be nowt. But did you notice them scratches on his hands?"

Hermione stared at Neville, wide-eyed with apprehension.

"Owls. He said he got them from owls," she whispered. "I assumed they'd lashed out when he gave them the antidote. Pig went bonkers when I used it on him. Neville, are you saying Snape's been handling dragons? Did he tell you?"

"No, but I gave him some of my gran's Goo to rub into the cuts. Right suspicious he was about it too. And it didn't touch 'em. I checked, and Gran says it should be effective on most minor injuries, even from magical creatures – all except dragons, oh and werewolves."

**End of chapter. So what has Snape been up to? Is he OK?**

**1 veronica – alt appellation for genus hebe. Neville can't help being botanical.**

**2 In 'The Chosen' Hermione suggests publicising the discovery of the Borometz.**

**3 Wilbur, Charlotte – characters in Charlotte's Web by E.B. White**

**4 The prophecy. Neville's awareness of this is not canon. However in 'The Chosen' he had overheard the trio discussing it.**

**5 degging can – watering can (Lancs.)**

**Next chapter: AND THESTRALS ARE VEGETARIAN. Hermione confronts Snape about those dragons!**


	13. And Thestrals are Vegetarian

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters etc belong to JKR and her publishers.**

**A/N: The title of this chapter seems to have aroused speculation, but I'm afraid I haven't crossed a Thestral with a Borometz… **

**Thanks to Cecelle and Duj for their invaluable comments at first draft stage.**

**Chapter 13 : AND THESTRALS ARE VEGETARIAN**

The afternoon light thickened, dimming and softening to the diffused, green-gold luminescence that precedes a summer storm. Hermione pressed on, quickening her pace, swinging her arms to match her stride, wanting to get home before the rain. The warm, dry spell of the last few days, so welcome after so many drab and chilly weeks, was threatening to break. Indigo clouds lowered like damp flannels waiting to wring themselves out over the landscape.

Up the slope from the bridle-path she went and onto the disused railway line, now part of the Trans-County Trail. Compacted brown gravel had been laid to replace the sections of buckled track and tar-black, wooden sleepers, relics of the long-redundant branch line. Rural commuters had long since been displaced by dog-walkers, joggers and lads on wide-tyred mountain bikes, grazing the surface with their wheelies and brake-locking sliding skids. But on that Monday afternoon she had the place to herself.

How long had she been walking – an hour? So she must have covered about four miles. It felt like at least ten. Inside one boot, her sock was bunching uncomfortably; she was thirsty and sticky. The air she breathed was heavy, humid and unrefreshing. Stamina came at a price. Was she prepared to pay it, and for how long?

Fitness training was only half the story. Hermione had needed to get out of the house, away from the numbing shock, which had paralysed the country since the previous day: a nation of Muggles in mourning for the death of a princess. Paris, Sunday 31st August.(1) The outpouring of grief consumed the media; the wall-to-wall coverage was suffocating, overwhelming, inescapable. She had never particularly thought of her parents as royalists, but they, like the rest of the populace, had their TV sets permanently switched on, tuned in to the almost constant bulletins concerning the funeral arrangements, parliament's cautiously non-committal response and the developing furore over the lack of any public statement by the Queen. Already Kensington was knee-deep in bouquets, becoming the largest wreath in human history; floral tributes from a stunned public that would saturate the air with their heady fragrance and, later, require bulldozers to clear.

Had the whole world gone mad? Was no one safe any more – magical or Muggle? Not concentrating on where she was going, Hermione scuffed her shoe on a stone and stumbled. It took a nimble skip and a hop to recover herself before forging onward, aiming for the junction in the trail where she might either continue on the right-hand, longer route along the railway, or short-cut left across farmland and back home.

_By rights_, she reflected dourly, _I should be on the Hogwarts Express now, with Ron and Ginny and Neville. I'd be doing prefect duty, telling everybody it'd soon be time to get into their robes…_ _September 1st: this should be the first day of term. _The note had arrived yesterday morning.

"A magical missive," her father had announced in a jocular tone, dropping the envelope into her lap, narrowly missing Crookshanks. The cat's ears had flattened; he wouldn't forget an insult. "Thought something was on fire; there's a terrible reek of smoke in the porch, but there was nothing. Just this letter for you. Burger Boy finally got round to writing, has he?"

Ah, Rumpus the delivery elf, Hermione assumed, noticing the Hogwarts' crest. _'We regret to inform you… unfortunate circumstances… revised starting date for the autumn term…'_

Oh, so not closed permanently then, just a delayed date. That was something. Did that mean McGonagall had resisted the temptation to offer a teaching post to Luna's dad?

A surge of nostalgia for the school and the wizarding world swept Hermione briskly on for the next hundred yards. Concentrating on her stride, with piston arms, she tried to power-walk the bleak loneliness out of her system. Sometimes Hogwarts seemed so remote, so unattainable, so unbelievable that she found herself doubting its very existence. Even though she was now of age, she'd been careful not to use magic at home this summer. It would be folly to draw attention to her location and put her parents at risk. But the result was that she now felt out of practice and out of touch. Looking over her texts for the next term and preparing the theory simply wasn't the same.

She would be returning to a different magical world. A world without Dumbledore or Molly Weasley, a Hogwarts without Harry or Malfoy - or Snape. How would he contact her when she was safely within the reinforced wards? Would he even want to? Or would she have outlived her usefulness by then? Would he be making new contacts in the outside world, new connections?

Cattle-grid or cow-gate…? Such ingenuity just to keep a few animals from blundering through a gap in the hedge. She paused in her ruminations long enough to squeeze into the V of the side-gate, pushing it 'to' behind her to make space for her to pass. Then she was off, leaving the trail behind, following tractor tracks diagonally across the field, not noticing the route, conscious only of the repetitive rhythm of her footfalls, the persistent pattern of her thoughts.

It was four days since she had spoken to Neville, nearly a week since her last visit from Snape. If she had been uneasy before about the professor's position in the Death Eater hierarchy, after her conversation with Neville she was – let's face it – worried. Tricking Neville into talking to _The Quibbler _– that was bad enough. But dragons? Surely Neville had got that wrong. Snape was no dragon handler, no dragon _whisperer_. If his woeful attempt at getting round Fluffy was anything to go by, he was no expert on magical creatures, unless they were sliced or dismembered and floating in formaldehyde – or whatever preservative potion it was that wizards used. The alternative was no better – werewolves? What stupid, unnecessary risks had he been taking now? Anyway, he hated werewolves, didn't he? No, she was more than worried. Try as she might, whether she was tuned-in to her umpteenth royal obituary broadcast, or rescheduling her workload to compensate for the shortened term time, or contemplating the vacuous void that was her love life, her thoughts kept sliding back to Snape. He was the trip switch that blacked out the rest.

After the unevenness of the grass, with its ruts and ridges, tussocks and thistles, the tarmac of the lane felt level and easy underfoot. Hermione hurried on, aware of the breeze picking up, the sultry, moisture-laden atmosphere. Ahead she could already see a grey scribble of rain tipping from a daub of dark cloud, like one of Peeves' water-bomb booby-traps but on a grand, global scale. Cutting through the outskirts of the village, she nipped down a side-street and along the footpath, which led through the estate of old people's bungalows and into the more affluent streets. Her parents' house was one of a dozen detached properties on a small, executive development. She could see it now, at the end of the cul-de-sac. Almost home.

xxx

How long had he been waiting by the gate? He was Disillusioned again, but not deeply this time, not completely invisible. Movement registered in her peripheral vision, alerting her to a shadowy presence and her intellect did the rest, so that when he spoke her name she was prepared, saved from the ignominy of shrieking in alarm. Hardly checking her pace, she continued down the drive and towards the front door, not trusting herself to address him, strangled by relief and reproach.

"Miss Granger." His voice was cool, yet - as ever - compelling.

"What?" She was glad now that she couldn't see him clearly – it gave her an alibi for the confusion that must be written too plainly on her features. But, if ever she needed to see his face, it was surely now.

"I have information for Potter."

"I can't talk here," she muttered. "The neighbours think I'm odd enough as it is. You'd better come inside." Her hand was already in her zip pocket feeling for the key.

"That will not be necessary. My written instructions are self-explanatory," he replied curtly, refusing the invitation.

_Yes, and Thestrals are vegetarian._

"Sir, if you want me to brief Harry, you'll have to go through it with me. Please, come inside. It's going to chuck it down any minute – we'll get wet."

In the hallway the Disillusionment Charm slid off him with a liquid silk fluidity, uncovering the man beneath the spell, like a soft dust drape slipping off the portrait of an Old Master painted in chiaroscuro, pale features accentuated by the dark background.

Carrying her walking boots in one hand, Hermione padded in her socks down the hall into the kitchen and dumped them in the boiler room, which, despite her mother's tidy tirades, was always a jumble of coats and shoes, outdoor gear, skiing and golf equipment.

"Here we are again," she laughed, bright and brittle. Shrugging out of her anorak she hung it loosely on the back of a chair. Her father's morning _Telegraph_ lay open on the table. There was only one story: Diana. Hermione nodded at the paper.

"You'd do better to set _The Quibbler_ on to that. What about _'You-Know-Who in Death of a Princess Conspiracy' _– there are bound to be enough whacky theories circulating. They could be researching it for months. It'd keep them off your back. You didn't have to drag poor Neville into it."

"Has Longbottom complained?" Snape gave the paper a cursory glance.

"Not exactly. But you know Neville – he's not one for publicity."

"I know he lacks the confidence to achieve his potential. It will do him no harm for his talent to be recognized. One cannot spend the whole of one's life locked up in a greenhouse." _Or a Potions dungeon. _"But I'm not here to discuss Longbottom."

Snape produced a parchment: two pages of his distinctive, close, spiky script – formulae and incantations, interspersed with annotated graphics illustrating, Hermione assumed, wand movements. The Horcrux counter curses.

"The efficacy of any one spell in isolation cannot be guaranteed - it will depend on the nature of the, ah, _artefact_, and how it has been protected. But used in combination, in conjunction with this Shielding Charm, they are powerful enough to inflict severe damage. Thus armed, Potter stands a chance of staying alive."

Hermione made a sterling effort to concentrate on the clipped explanation and focus on the text, but instead of following his finger to the relevant passages, her eyes were drawn to the angry, scabbing scars on the back of his hands. Any normal scratches should have healed days ago.

"Why didn't you **tell** me?" she exclaimed, unable to stem the flood of reproach any longer. "Did you think that I'd mind? No, of course I mind – it's awful for you, but I don't mean it like that. Haven't I been friends with Remus all these years? Did it make any difference? And Bill – we all still love Bill. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Miss Granger! You're rambling."

_What do you expect? Isn't that what Ramblers do?_

"You could have told me -" Her throat, parched from walking and now constricted with emotion, seized up altogether and she found herself coughing. Snape selected a glass tumbler from the draining board, filled it with water and placed it on the table.

"Sit," he ordered. "Now. Told you _what_?" He was guarded, suspicious. Hermione took a few calming sips.

"That you'd been bitten," she croaked.

"Bitten? By what? Whatever gave you that idea?" One did not often see Snape bemused. It was a shame that Hermione was too upset to appreciate the novelty.

"It all fits," she said. "Look at your poor hands – don't tell me _owls_ did that to you. And then, at full moon last weekend I didn't see you for three days. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but… And when you were here last Tuesday you were so dreadfully tired and hungry… As if you hadn't got enough to deal with! I should have recognised the signs. I've been so blind!"

Snape sat down next to her. Hermione kept her eyes firmly fixed on the table, dreading to read in his face the confirmation of her fears.

"Miss Granger." His voice was neutral, balanced on a fulcrum between harsh and gentle. She looked up, brimming with hope and ready sympathy.

The scales tipped.

"You should check your facts rather than indulge in hysterical speculation," he sneered. "You are mistaken. I have** not** been bitten by a werewolf."

**End of chapter.**

**1: 31st August 1997. I felt that it would be unrealistic to portray a UK Muggle household on this date without some reference to the death of Diana.**

**Next Chapter: UNSPOKEN TRUTHS. Snape finally gives hermione some answers, but not necessarily the ones she was hoping for...**


	14. Unspoken Truths

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: Characters etc are the property of JKR and her publishers…**

**A/N: Thanks everybody for the reviews and comments – please keep 'em coming. Special thanks to Duj and Cecelle for looking this over first.**

**This is quite a long chapter, but it answers a lot of questions (I hope). It carries on directly from the previous one.**

**Chapter 14:UNSPOKEN TRUTHS**

Hermione stared at Snape wildly.

"Then what the_ hell_ have you been doing?" she cried. "I **know** you've been dealing with werewolves – and not friendly ones, either." _Or dragons? No, gut feeling told her it wasn't dragons._ "Even you couldn't fight a full grown werewolf and not get bitten. Or is it something you Death Eaters do for fun – for sport?" That was a childish comment, and she knew it, but she was just so furiously relieved: she wanted to lash out, to insult him, to hug him for being safe. Was Voldemort like some deranged Emperor Nero, pitting his strongest and best against magical beasts in barbaric gladiatorial combat? It was only one stage further on from duelling, after all. "Well? Aren't you going to say _anything_?"

"I am under no obligation to explain myself to you. The less -"

"The less I know, the better? You can't have it both ways, Sir. Just now you were telling me to check my facts."

Facts which, up until a moment ago, had seemed to make sense, but which she was now having to scramble and rearrange into newly eloquent sequences, like magnetic fridge poetry - repositioning the random letters to create the _mot juste_. It wasn't logical: if a werewolf had come close enough to inflict the scratches, how had Snape avoided being bitten? If he had used a stunning spell, why had he waited until they were within striking distance? And why were there no marks on his face – surely a werewolf would normally aim for the throat?

"It's got something to do with that revolting Fenrir person, hasn't it?" she stabbed, dragging in the name of the only werewolf she knew apart from Remus. "Oh, no it couldn't have. He took a Petrificus that night on the Tower, didn't he?" Her face fell. Another theory in shreds. She glared at Snape, her eyes narrowing. He was suspiciously non-committal. "But Tonks never said anything about him being arrested… It **was** him! And he's… Oh no. Ohmigod, he's…" She looked Snape up and down, from head to foot, assessing him, measuring his height against a second shocking hypothesis. "It wasn't a _full grown_ werewolf at all, was it, Sir? It was small – a child! I'm right, aren't I? It wasn't… Oh, heck, it wasn't _Malfoy_?"

Much as she had disliked and, latterly, despised her Slytherin classmate, she would not have wished this fate upon him.

"You are correct." The words chilled her with their icy precision. "It was **not** Draco. He would not thank you for calling him a child."

Hermione sensed she had driven him to the point of leaving. Intuitively interpreting his body language – the imperceptible tensioning of the calves, the slight shift of weight forwards in preparation for a push up to standing – Hermione caught at Snape's hand to stop him from going, withdrawing immediately as he flinched at the contact.

"Oh, I'm sorry. But you can't go, Sir – we haven't gone through the Counter Curses for one thing, and… Sir, isn't it better that you tell me what's going on, rather than leave me to make incorrect assumptions?" She took a breath and endeavoured to sound more rational. "I appreciate that your 'work' is something you want to keep separate… But I was really worried – I was imagining all sorts of awful things. The truth can't be any worse."

Snape was sitting down again – that had to be a good sign. He was not, however, about to be coerced into confession. If anything, Hermione's concern strengthened his reserve. He should have known she would not let the matter drop.

"Besides," she pursued her argument, "once 'he' gets wind of the fact that I know about the Horcruxes, do you suppose he's going to care one way or the other whether or not I suspect Greyback of being some kind of wolfy paedophile?"

Her bluntness was rewarded: Snape's lips twitched in disapproval, an acknowledgement that he had at least listened. But his gaze was concentrated inward, weighing the risks of ignorance and misunderstanding, information and privity. His thumb traced lightly across the scars, massaging the hand that Hermione had grabbed. She hadn't meant to hurt him.

"So Greyback **did** escape then?" Surely Snape wouldn't have helped him. Harry hadn't said anything about him stopping to cast a 'Finite'. "Who un-spelled him – you? Alecto?"

"Is it relevant?" Snape parried.

"OK, how's this for a scenario," Hermione went on, determined not to be cowed into silence. "Fenrir Greyback bites a child and -"

"Children," Snape corrected, quietly admitting her into his confidence. The condemnation in his shadowed eyes was no longer directed at her.

"Oh, God. How many?" she whispered.

Snape resorted to her eyes now, needing that reassurance before committing himself any further. He spoke gravely.

"Did you read about an accident about three weeks ago in which a mini-bus of primary age schoolchildren crashed into the River Severn?"

Hermione nodded, appalled at the implication.

"Yes, Sir. They were all drowned. The bodies were never found. They blamed it on the undertow from tidal currents."

"Conveniently so." He seemed to think this sufficient explanation, but Hermione couldn't rest without further clarification. The facts were too horrible to leave to conjecture. A host of questions sprang to her lips; Snape forestalled her with a frown.

"There is little doubt that Greyback orchestrated the crash. In any event, he kidnapped the children. There are nine of them. They are… young." Unfamiliar with children any younger than eleven, he glossed over their ages. "…and troublesome," he added, shaking his head.

They'd be distraught, Hermione reasoned, terrified, lost, in pain, uncomprehending, pining for their families.

"And Greyback's bitten them? All of them? What is this? Does Vol- does _he_ know about this? Or is it some sort of horrible hobby that beast's got going on the side? If Greyback bit them, why isn't he dealing with them? Why keep them? Why hasn't he taken them to live in his feral wolf pack – or whatever it is that Remus is supposed to be infiltrating? What's it got to do with you?"

Impatience and distaste flashed across Snape's face; he was not temperamentally attuned to small children, let alone hysterical ones.

"The brats are uncontrollable. Short of keeping them Stupefied, Fenrir cannot manage so many. And at full moon, obviously, he is in no position to -"

"But those kids are Muggles! What does he want them for anyway? He can't train them up to be Death Eaters – or can he?" Hermione was less than clear as to whether becoming a werewolf in some way superseded Muggledom and became a qualification for entering Voldemort's entourage. Snape answered dispassionately.

"Being Muggles they are expendable… No doubt Fenrir has some purpose in mind, but not until they have adjusted to their condition. First they have to be broken."

"Broken? They're not mustangs!"

"And you can get off that moral high horse," he snapped, as highly-strung as a stallion himself. "I haven't exactly been goading them with a whip and a chair. They are being dosed with Wolfsbane initially to ease the transition. It has been necessary to modify the potion to take into account their infancy. Minors can react unpredictably to the ingredients until they have developed a tolerance. I have brewed numerous batches."

Even as he said it, the weariness – mental and physical - was rolling off him in waves. Hermione understood how many gruelling hours' work, demanding pin-sharp concentration, total accuracy and undeviating attention to every drop, stir and bubble, was required to produce a single dose of Wolfsbane. And Snape had been concocting nine times that quantity, experimenting with new formulations, working in a makeshift laboratory without the benefit of his normal equipment. No wonder he was exhausted; no wonder he had been otherwise engaged over Full Moon.

"Last weekend must have been hell," she said. Cautious commiseration.

"The first Transformation is always the worst. Even with the potion, they required constant supervision and some, ah, restraint."

_Snarling, screaming, thrashing, kicking, biting, scratching… They were like a pack of wild dogs, rabid dogs, circling me, clawing at me, angling for a bite, spitting out the potion. I couldn't take my eyes off them for a second. Vicious little tykes._

"Those poor kids. Their parents think they're dead," Hermione murmured.

"Better they were." He took an unsentimental view, jaundiced by his involvement over the past week. "Don't waste your sympathy. Consider it a bonus that the families have been spared the truth."

"But couldn't you have _done_ something?" In her heart, Hermione knew that lycanthropy itself was incurable, but she clutched at hope and her faith in Snape. He was a potions expert, wasn't he? Might he not have brewed up something to save them? A new, improved Wolfsbane Plus?

"Like what? What could I do?" he demanded angrily, a sting of hurt in his voice. "Release them out into the Muggle world to be hunted down like animals or locked up as freaks? Bring them to Hogwarts? Or here? Who would want them? Would you? No. Blow my cover for the sake of a handful of Muggle brats who are as good as dead already? I think not. Poison them and put them out of their misery? Oh, it was tempting, I can tell you."

He was shaking. Hermione hadn't seen him quite so upset since Sirius's escape, when he had lost his chance of getting the Order of Merlin.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I only meant -"

"Don't you think I would have helped them if I could?" His voice was jagged with bitterness and impotence.

Hermione wasn't sure for whom she felt sorrier – for the man or the children. The children, she decided – as if being bitten wasn't bad enough, they had to endure being looked after by Snape. That can't have been a barrel of laughs either. He probably detested small kids almost as much as he hated werewolves. And a combination of the two… Oh boy! Yet, he would never abandon them to their fate. Hermione couldn't think of any circumstance in which Snape would knowingly allow a child to be hurt.

She looked again at the man sitting at her table. Fingers interlocked, his hands were clamped tightly together. He had, Hermione realised, pulled his sleeves down, hiding the scratches. He'd told her they'd been made by owls. And she had believed him. Escaping from the cuff, the raw ridge of a single welt reached as far as his knuckle. For one insane, unguarded instant Hermione wanted to lean across and kiss it better.

"But, Sir, are they… are you… _infected_?" She had to know.

A muscle in his throat tightened - the very idea was enough to trigger a gag reflex.

"It'd take more than a gang of brats… No, Miss Granger, I am not," he said, adding in a grim undertone, "Not yet."

**xxx**

How many times had Hermione imagined the scene in which Snape would finally trust her enough to take her into his confidence? And now that he had, she wished he hadn't. The reality wasn't exciting or dramatic, it was vile. And had sharing this knowledge reduced Snape's burden? It didn't look like it. Back-pedalling, she tried to return to less emotive ground.

"I've often wondered what it was you did all day. But how were you expected to cope with so many children all by yourself?" The idea could have been comical, but humour now, at Snape's expense, was not an option. Dignity was fragile, easily damaged. Recognising a safer cue, Snape raised his head.

"It fell to me to monitor the potion for adverse side effects over the critical forty-eight hour period. At other times…" He cleared his throat, pausing on the wisdom of revealing any more details.

"Yes?" Hermione was hanging on his every word.

"Work it out for yourself. Do you think I'm required for my Divination skills?" Sarcasm returned, with a twist of contempt.

"You said before that brewing formed a large part of your duties?"

Snape rubbed his eyes, drawing his hands back across his face so that, briefly, his skin was stretched even more taut over the cheekbones. He spoke with some reluctance.

"The Dark Lord is demanding a faster turnover in the production of Veritaserum. A month is too long. I have been looking into the process. The measures required to accelerate the brewing are labour intensive and time-consuming, the results volatile at best."

"Veritaserum? Is he bored with Crucios?" They were drifting away from the subject of the were-children, but perhaps that was just as well. Besides, Hermione couldn't bring herself to abandon this rare insight into Snape's life with Voldemort.

"Why mix business with pleasure?" he said, his eyes glittering. For a moment Hermione couldn't tell if he were being serious. "Information extracted under torture can become garbled. Using Veritaserum gives us access to the facts while the victim is still lucid. It's rare that we get a wizard of sufficient calibre to withstand the serum. Or, if we do, there are ways of softening him up. The torture then becomes an end in itself, an exercise in the infliction of pain, unsullied by sordid confession."

Disgust soured Hermione's sympathy. He sounded as though he approved. How could he stand by and allow that to happen? It was cruel, evil.

"Paradoxically, it is more humane," Snape growled, reading her revulsion. "The Dark Lord tends to be over-enthusiastic. Unchecked, his excesses can result in death in a mere matter of minutes. Whereas, if it is necessary for the victim to remain conscious… if a person resists… Without the serum it can involve hours of unnecessary pain to get to the truth. Ollivander, for example, was stubborn – and in the end he knew nothing of value. He need not have suffered so long."

The thickening clouds outside had cast the kitchen into a premature dusk, but Hermione was loath to turn on the light. The gloom blurred the edges of Snape's complicity; if she couldn't see the guilt in his face, he seemed somehow less culpable. Truth could be too ugly to tackle head on. Suddenly, savaged six-year olds were, after all, a less traumatic topic.

"So, you've had to act as guardian?" she asked, returning warily to the were-children. The word 'baby-sit' had been on the tip of her tongue, but she wasn't that foolhardy. "Couldn't they find anybody else?"

"They had to. I lack the requisite experience," he admitted.

Now the first moody drops of rain were slouching down the window pane. Hermione stopped her questions and peered out at the saturated sky, relieved to have arrived home before the deluge. She glanced shyly at Snape. He too had lapsed into mute reverie and was watching the weather. It was, as Neville had said, as if he were content just to sit for a while, just to be there. Respecting that need, Hermione allowed him his moments of peace. He didn't get many. She marvelled to be sharing a silence with Professor Snape which was anything other than hostile.

Should she get up and make a cup of tea? Although thirsty, she was unwilling to shatter the twilight tranquillity, to disturb his reprieve. He took so little time out. Smiling softly, she remembered the first time he had sat here in this kitchen; the way he had jumped at the click of the kettle. They had - she recalled their conversation clearly – been talking about Ron and the Weasleys. And Snape had said…

A jolt of suspicion twanged through her nerves like sciatica. Back then she had described Molly Weasley as 'the archetypal mum' and what had Snape replied? He'd said: _'She possesses the requisite experience'_. The _requisite experience_ which he himself lacked. An exemplary mother, accustomed to caring for a large family, even with some experience of werewolves… No, it wasn't possible. It couldn't be. It was a verbal coincidence. She refused to believe it of him. _Of a Death Eater who had stood by and spectated while that creepy but harmless, old Mr Ollivander was slowly interrogated? Get real, Hermione. He's a Slytherin. He's here because you're useful, not because he values your friendship or enjoys your company. Don't kid yourself that you are anything more to Snape than a convenience._

Suspicion was clamouring for credence, shrieking in the voices of nine mutilated children, howling for their mothers…

Uneasily Hermione edged round on her chair and stood up, backing away across the kitchen. She couldn't bear to be sitting anywhere near Snape any more, not with doubt baying the moon. He looked up, the knot of tension that had slackened for that brief respite now gathering again in his brow. Hermione's mind felt fogged and fuzzy, as though she had acquired one of Luna's brain-boggling Wrackspurts. Right now she would have traded her soul for a Time-Turner to lose the last few minutes and return to that momentary lull she had mistaken for companionship. She saw it was merely the eye of the storm.

"How could you?" She glared at him with sudden loathing, borne of disappointment. "How low can you get? It's bad enough doing that to a stranger, but… Mrs Weasley, of all people!"

A hitch of heavy eyebrows, a pursing of already thinned lips: her acuity had taken him by surprise.

"Aren't you going to deny it?" she demanded.

"To what purpose? You already have me tried and convicted."

"So you admit that you kidnapped Ron's mum to look after a bunch of baby werewolves?" _Please tell me I'm wrong, that the idea is far-fetched, fatuous, farcical, flawed, faulty, featherbrained… Use as many F words as you like._

"Who did you think was taking care of them – Bellatrix? Narcissa? Draco?" _So it was true. Snape had been involved in Mrs Weasley's disappearance, and had lied about it._

"Other Death Eaters have wives, don't they? Why not rope in one of them? Or wouldn't they soil their precious Pureblood hands by associating with Muggles?" Hermione was pacing in agitation, not that the design of the kitchen allowed much room to manoeuvre, her socked feet slipping on the tiles.

"It is hardly a position to attract volunteers." He was unperturbed, as if he were discussing an unpopular, routine chore, or allocating the duty roster at Quidditch camp – not talking about the abduction and enslavement of an innocent housewife, who also just happened to be her boyfriend's mother.

"So whose sick idea was this – yours? Did you suggest her? You've never liked Ron." Her knuckles, gripping the back of the chair, were white as she accused him.

"I rather think the nomination came from another quarter."

_Malfoy?_

"But all the same – Molly Weasley! Did it have to be one of us?"

"You would have preferred it to be someone else's mother? Whose? Brocklehurst's? Finnegan's? Patil's? Boot's? Brown's? Finch-Fletchley's? Turpin's? Bell's?" He was capable of reeling off the entire Hogwarts register.

"All right!" The relentless listing ceased. "And what about Mrs Bobbin – Melinda's mother? Have you taken her too? What experience has she got? Melinda is an only child. Got that one wrong, didn't you?" Anger and outrage had unleashed the girl's tongue.

"Their circumstances are completely different," Snape retorted. "The daughter would have done equally well -"

"Oh that's disgusting!" Hermione turned away, sickened.

"- as a _hostage_." Snape finished the sentence with acid emphasis. "The father owns a string of Apothecaries.(1) He has been more than generous in furnishing me with some of the rarer potions ingredients."

"Under duress."

"Would you rather I stole them?" Snape asked.

"Yes. No. Oh, what's the difference?" Arguing with Snape dragged her through an ethical looking glass where 'conscience' and 'scruple' had no meaning.

"But you let us go on believing she was dead. You knew how devastated the Weasleys were – how could you be so cruel?"

"Cruel? I as good as told you the woman was alive, if you had bothered to listen. 'Where there's life there's hope'? To whom did you think I referred?"

Hermione spooled back through their earlier conversation, wondering whether she had misunderstood, or whether he was now tampering with her memories too. She shrugged in exasperation, feeling that she was letting the argument slip away from her.

"To yourself. Or maybe to Ron. When you spoke about hope, I thought you were talking about the Borometz. Besides, when you said that, I didn't even know Mrs Weasley was missing."

Snape's spine straightened, and a characteristic supercilious slant angled his voice. Hermione had not appreciated before that it might be employed defensively.

"I had assumed that with your perspicacity and your penchant for problem-solving, you would have made the obvious connection."

_Obvious? How dare he imply that she was the one who had been remiss?_

"But, Sir, I _asked_ you about her. I specifically asked if you knew if she was all right – and you didn't say a word."

Had they been in a classroom, Snape would have retreated by now into his marking, forcing Hermione to wait while he regrouped his arguments under the banner of that relentless, merciless red quill. Here he had no such prop.

"The Weasley woman is fine. She has not been exposed to any real danger. I told you, I was there to monitor the potion consumption during the critical period. She has performed her duties more than adequately."

Snape was forced to concede Molly's superiority in childcare. Quickly gaining the children's confidence, she had assisted with bandages and dressings. Despite limited resources she had soon distracted them with singing and stories, drawing, word games and simple party games. _Some party_. She had been a sound choice.

"And what about when she is no longer needed for those duties?" Hermione railed. "What then? What's 'he' going to do? Send her home with a slice of cake and a party bag?" She echoed Snape's thoughts with uncanny accuracy.

"I'll handle that when the time comes." Brusqueness compensated for uncertainty. He didn't yet know how he would extricate the woman.

Hermione saw, and anxiety spilled back into her stomach. His reassurances had partially appeased her, but if he hadn't even worked out an escape plan…

"So what do I tell Ron and Ginny?" she demanded.

"Nothing. You tell them _nothing_." Snape was emphatic. "Any hint of 'Welcome home, Mother' celebrations and my position is compromised. Yours, too. Why do you think I did not tell you before?"

Hermione folded her arms, hugging her annoyance to her chest, and fixed Snape with a sulky stare.

"You're sure Mrs Weasley's not hurt?" she asked sullenly.

"I have said so."

"Yes, but what _haven't_ you said? What else have you been keeping quiet about? That's what I want to know. You've been using us – all of us."

Snape's eyes flashed several detentions' worth of irritation. Pulling the parchment across the table, he unrolled it and flattened it out in front of him.

"We shall review the Counter Curses before I leave," he informed her in a cold monotone. Grudgingly, Hermione moved to where she could see, while hearing the clipped, impersonal phrases: incantation, intonation, repetition, intent, wand direction, concentration… Somewhere in the left hand side of her brain the bald facts registered. They reached the bottom of the second page and Snape stood up.

"Anything else?" Hermione hadn't forgiven him. Neither had she forgiven herself for being so malleable, too willing, too eager for approval.

Snape had seen no reason to delay his departure. He was already at the back door, fastening his cloak tightly right up to the throat, against the rain which was now tumbling from the sky like sprats from a trawler's net.

"You might advise Potter to focus his energies onto finding the locket." He drew his hood up over his head and opened the door. On the threshold he paused, like Crookshanks, checking for danger before the plunge into the unknown. Rain battered the step, bouncing back and splattering the drip mat inside.

"Wait!" Hermione was across the kitchen in a bound, slamming the door closed before him. "_What_ did you say? Look for the _locket_? What about Ravenclaw's Pen? Pen, Quill, whatever you want to call it. Harry's spent ages searching for it. What's he supposed to do about that? Forget it?"

"As he wishes."

"As _he_ wishes? Are you saying the Pen isn't worth bothering with? That it isn't a Horcrux after all? What are you saying?" Something wasn't quite right here.

Snape gave her one of those deeply inscrutable looks.

"I am saying that he would do better to concentrate on a known Horcrux, now that he is equipped to cope with it. Now, if you don't mind -" Hunching his shoulders he prepared to meet the sluicing water.

Hermione barred his way. He was being evasive and obstructive, and she had no intention of letting him leave until she had got to the bottom of it.

"You didn't seem too bothered at the prospect of him tracking down the Pen before," she pointed out. "It's almost as if you knew he'd never find it, as if it didn't exist. Or, if it does, as if you knew it wasn't a Horcrux in the first place…"

Snape didn't respond. Hooded, his face in shadow, it was even more difficult than usual to gauge his reaction. Hermione's mind raced – Luna's Wrackspurt had been ousted by one of her giant hebe moths fluttering and flapping in panic against her stomach walls.

"It isn't a Horcrux at all, is it?" It was an accusation, not a question. "You knew that all along. Take off that hood and look at me! Is Ravenclaw's Pen a Horcrux?"

"I have no reason to believe so."

Incredulous, she gaped at him, then uttered a snort of fey laughter.

"Great! That's just marvellous. So it was all a hoax. What about _Ultio in scripto? 'The phrase you heard the Dark Lord quote on more than one occasion'_? Hey? Did you make that up too? Why? _Why?_ What do you stand to gain from tricking us? Don't you _want_ Harry to find the Horcruxes?"

She searched his face for any trace of shame or regret or repentance, but she couldn't see past the self-righteous complacency.

"On the contrary," he said, infuriatingly calm. "It is imperative that he finds and destroys them. But I could not run the risk of his discovering the genuine article before he was adequately prepared. There is too much at stake."

"You had Harry jumping through hoops – and me!" Hermione exclaimed heatedly. "There was I thinking I was so clever, looking up a few references… All that time I spent reading up about Flamel and Bruno and Della Porta… when all the time it was another red herring."

"Red herring or sensible precaution? With your track history, who knows what you might have discovered? And your research was not without result. The background information you unearthed was valid." Damning with faint praise.

"Big deal." It wasn't so much the waste of time she resented, but the humiliation: being patronised, lied to, manipulated. She felt such a fool. "I hope we've given you a good laugh – gullible Gryffindors, eh? We walked right into that one."

Snape looked straight at her. It was disconcerting.

"Miss Granger, without you I would not have gained access to the spell books. Your assistance has been invaluable."

"Oh, fine. And that makes it all right? Sir, why couldn't you just have _told_ me? You could have told me about Mrs Weasley; you could have told me to stall Harry on the Horcruxes. I thought you _trusted_ me."

That was what hurt most – the betrayal.

At last he had the decency to look uncomfortable.

"The funny thing is, Sir, that _I_ trusted _you_. Despite what everybody says – in spite of my own judgement too, half the time – I thought I knew better, and I trusted you. How silly does that make me? I really wanted to help you, Sir. To think I went to McGonagall to stick up for you. I thought I could make a difference. I believed I was doing something important, doing what was right. And guess what?" A choked, bitter chuckle caught in her throat. "I actually deluded myself into thinking you appreciated it. That you respected me for it."

"Miss Granger -"

Hermione twisted away. What now – more lies? Persuasive platitudes? Steadying herself against the sink unit, her back to Snape, she braced for impending tears. Her world dissolved and reformed as she fought for control. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. If only he would leave now. Leave or apologise – one or the other. Yet how could she believe anything he said? It would take much more than words to convince her he was sincere. But he was here, wasn't he? That in itself spoke volumes.

"Do you know," she gulped, "I stupidly thought that this might be one place – maybe the only place – where you didn't have to lie. Where you could leave that behind, along with the brutality and the sycophancy and all the other things that make your life so hateful. I thought… I thought you could come here and have a break from all that – you could be yourself, even for just a little while. And there were times when I even thought that was what you wanted too. But you can't do it, can you? You're so steeped in secrecy, you don't know who you are any more."

Oh God, had she really said all that? The next sound she'd hear would be the door shutting and that would be that. He'd go and never come back. She'd blown it. She had only herself to blame. Snape's very existence depended on duplicity – could he, for her sake, be expected to change the habits of a lifetime? She didn't condemn Crookshanks for chasing voles; how then could she criticise Snape for his very nature? So he had abused her trust – was it that which upset her, or the fact that he was so rudely resistant to being helped? That he had not succumbed to her sympathy? Seriously, had she ever hoped for anything more than recognition? If he had felt anything more than gratitude, would that have been what she really wanted? Or would the knowledge have been enough – the knowledge that she had the power to reach him?

Hesitant footsteps across the kitchen were drowned by the drumming of the rain. A sixth sense thrilled to the awareness that Snape was standing behind her, as close as he had been that first night in the garden. Close enough to hold her… Tonight he was not invisible.

But it was injured pride which held her, rooted to the spot, as firm and unyielding as Neville's replanted tooth. Expecting retaliation, or slippery, smooth-tongued self-justification, she was surprised: his voice was as gentle as she'd ever heard it. The scales had tipped the other way – now that she'd almost stopped counting.

"If I had told you the truth, you would have been forced into ever deeper deception," he said. "Could you have lied to your friends - to Potter and Weasley? It was difficult enough sending that owl, wasn't it?"

Dumbly, she nodded.

"That was one small subterfuge. Could you cope with living a lie – where every thought and action is dictated by deceit? You would find the strain intolerable. If you had been acting a part, you would not have been half as convincing. Your emotions are far too transparent."

"Transparent?" she sniffed.

"As Veritaserum."

"Well, at least one of us knows how to be honest."

Unspoken truths charged the air with impossibility.

"Hermione, I…"

The blast from the open door and the disarming spell hit them both simultaneously.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

**End of chapter. Apologies for the cliffie… Just couldn't resist. Things get very bad for Snape in the next chapter. Don't miss it!**

**1 Cf. HBP ch 11.**


	15. A Lucky Choice

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters are the property of JKR and her publishers. **

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews everybody - you're right, I'm not really sorry about that cliffie. Special thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their comments at first draft stage.**

**This is rather a tense chapter. You have been warned!**

**Chapter 15 : A LUCKY CHOICE**

'_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper.'_

_(The Hollow Men. T.S. Elliot)_

"Harry! No!"

Flinging herself in front of Snape, Hermione shielded the startled Potions master with her body.

"Hermione, get out of the way. Don't you touch her, you bastard!"

Harry motioned her roughly aside, his wand trained unswervingly on Snape. Their own two wands were clasped triumphantly in his other hand. Dripping and windswept, he stood framed in the doorway, a savage excitement glinting behind the rain-spotted glasses. His exultation was cut with a baffled delight, as though he had just paid a parking meter and it had coughed up a jackpot. He was talking tough, but chancing upon Snape had come as a shock, Hermione could tell, like finding a coiled cobra in a laundry basket.

"Harry, put down the wand, please. We can explain. You don't understand -"

"Quick, Hermione, get over here. I've got you covered."

It was a moment of terrible indecision for the girl. Should she go over to Harry in the hopes of retrieving her wand, or stay put? If she left Snape's side, would Harry instantly hit him with a curse? He looked murderous enough for anything.

"What have you done to her? Let her go." Malice resonated in a voice spiked with vicious glee. Hermione scarcely recognised her friend. Suffused with hatred, his normally mild features were contorted with rage and bloodlust.

"I said, 'let her go'." The wand jabbed the air.

"Do as he says," Snape murmured in her ear. In another time, another place, it would have made her tingle.

"Are you crazy?" she hissed. "He'll kill you. Let me talk to him." She pressed herself protectively back against his chest.

"Hiding behind a woman?" Harry mocked. "I always said you were a coward."

Snape's grip tightened on Hermione's shoulders. He would have thrust her away in a furious lunge towards the boy, but she grabbed onto the table and held her ground.

"Don't call me _coward_," he spat, venomous, vitriolic.(1)

"**Stop it!** Stop it, both of you," shouted Hermione. "Harry, listen – you've got to listen. Snape's on our side. Do you hear? He's on _our side_. He's not working for Voldemort."

"Could have fooled me," Harry sneered.

"Shut up, Harry. He's been helping me. Helping me to help you. All the stuff I've found out about the Horcruxes – it's all come from him." Now was not the time to mention the 'Pen' problem, or the whole Horcrux red-herring fiasco. "No, really. It's true," she protested, recognising disbelief when she saw it.

"Yeah, right. Whatever." The wand remained fixed on Snape, waiting only for a clear shot.

"Harry, remember the note," Hermione pleaded. "The one that saved you from the Death Eater ambush at Godric's Hollow? Snape sent it. He warned you so you could get out in time." She was edging backwards by infinitesimal degrees, keeping Harry talking while steering Snape towards the doorway into the hall. Perhaps he could make a run for it if she covered his retreat.

"Did he now? Bully for him." Harry saw not altruism but ulterior motives.

"Look on the table," urged Hermione. "See that parchment? It's a list of Counter Curses for you to use when you're destroying the Horcruxes. Snape's been working on those for you too."

"Fine. So we don't need him any more then. _Colloportus!_" Harry locked the door, blocking their escape route.

"Potter, put down the wand." Snape took over now, steady and authoritative, the voice of absolute command. Hermione did all but salute, yet Harry's wand was still poised and pointing.

"Keep back!"

"Potter, do you trust Miss Granger?"

Harry's eyes flickered to the girl's face, but not long enough for Snape to rush him. Trust Hermione? More than anyone in the world, except Ron. Sometimes more than Ron. He had trusted her with his secrets, with his fears; ever since the first year he had trusted her judgement and intelligence; he had told her about his cloak, the Marauders' Map, his lessons with Dumbledore, about the Prophecy, about the Horcruxes…

"Usually," he grunted. "Or I do when bastards like you haven't brainwashed her."

"Her reasoning faculties are unimpaired." _Unlike yours, boy._ "Open your mind to the possibility that she might be telling the truth. I have supplied her with information. I shall support your fight against the Dark Lord. I can help you to locate the remaining Horcruxes."

"I don't want your help."

"Maybe not. Nevertheless, you will need it. Consider -"

"I'm not considering anything!" Harry yelled. "You killed Dumbledore. I was there. I saw you." It was the one fact of which he was categorically, unshakeably certain. Nothing could persuade him otherwise.

"This is not about Dumbledore." Snape needed to ease the traumatised boy past that psychological stumbling block. "Potter, this is about the Prophecy – and your destiny."

"Haven't you done enough damage with that bloody prophecy? 'Neither can live while the other survives'," Harry quoted. "Sounds about right to me. I'm going to destroy Voldemort. But first, I'm going to kill you. It'll be a kind of dress rehearsal for the real thing. And don't," he added dangerously, "try to talk me out of it."

"Harry, we've got to talk," Hermione soothed. "Why don't we all sit down? There's no need for -"

"Talk? Do you know how long I've dreamed of this moment? I've finally got this swine at my mercy, and you expect me to _talk_? Don't make me laugh, Hermione. Stand back."

Puzzled by her obstinate loyalty to the traitor, Harry's gaze tracked from the girl's white, frightened face to the man behind. Was she Snape's hostage? She didn't appear to be under any restraint. He could understand if the sod were holding a wand to her neck. Shouldn't he have her in an arm-lock or something, or have his elbow round her throat? Her defence of Snape appeared to be voluntary. And what about all this rubbish she was spouting – Snape an ally? Had the bastard Confunded her, Obliviated her? One thing was for sure – she was getting in the way.

Snape read indecision; he also read fear and an implacable lust for revenge. He read the capacity and the intent to kill. Once he had doubted whether Harry had the nerve or the ability to go through with it, but no longer. The death of Dumbledore had focused the boy's hostility, and Snape was the target. He did not underestimate the strength of that hatred; complacency could be fatal. He read the Petrificus forming in the boy's mind before even Harry himself was conscious of the decision to immobilise Hermione. There was no time to warn her. Giving her arm a soft squeeze, Snape felt answering pressure as she leaned back. Distracted, she was off-balance, unprepared for the violent push that sent her staggering across the room and sprawling at Harry's feet just as the spell shot from his wand. On the worktop, a pasta jar shattered in a glass-and-grain explosion of Durham wheat and crystal; twisted beige fusilli spirals hailed onto the tiles.

"Hold your fire, Potter. Miss Granger need not be part of this. The fact that she has been acting as my intermediary does not make her your enemy. It's me you want."

"What are you saying?" Hermione wailed in dismay, sitting on the floor rubbing a bruised knee. Snape ignored her, concentrating on Harry. Words were now his only weapon. The boy would be too pig-headed to negotiate, too hot-headed to reflect. The Gryffindor in him would shoot first and think later. The idea of getting help from Snape would be an anathema. Snape recognised the resistant streak, the strain of truculent, non-receptive stubbornness. Just as Harry had closed his mind to Occlumency, so now he was rejecting cooperation.

Snape played for time.

"You'll find, Potter, that killing in cold blood is very different from shooting off spells in the heat of the battle. Draco found it too daunting…"

"Shut up! Don't compare me to that spineless, Slytherin creep. I'm nothing like Malfoy."

_No, you are a great deal more dangerous. _

"So, Potter, you've got me. What do you intend to do about it? I assume you have something_ special_ in mind." Instinctively Snape adopted the taunting tone of the Dark Lord. Too often had he witnessed the technique used to spectacular effect. "Allow me to share the anticipation. What's it to be? The Cruciatus? I hope not. Unsubtle – crude, undignified and noisy. Avada Kedavra? Oh, I don't think so. It would all be over too soon. One green flash isn't much to get your teeth into after waiting so long. One can never truly savour the Killing Curse. Imperius then? There is something to be said for that one – a certain novelty value. I must say, I had not envisaged ending up like one of Moody's spiders… No, I imagine you have planned something a little more creative…"

As Snape was speaking, Hermione was inching towards Harry's back pocket where he had stowed their wands. They were almost within reach.

"What's it to be, Potter? A taste of my own medicine? Yes, that would appeal to you, wouldn't it? What are you going to do – suspend me by the ankle? Like father, like son?"

"I am **not** my father," shouted Harry. However much he had once aspired to be like James, the Pensieve and the punishment files had opened Harry's eyes to the fact that his father had not been the paragon he had once believed. Harry would not stoop to such bullying tactics: he would not gang up on a fellow-student and campaign to make his life a misery. But one to one… with a murderer…? That was a different matter. Why waste his compassion on an outlaw? He'd be doing wizardry a favour.

Harry felt short-changed by Snape's sang-froid. In his fantasy finale, Snape's agonising death was the climax to a scene of degrading abasement in which the hated master, stripped of power, authority and dignity, was reduced to begging for his worthless life. In real life the man's calm was disconcerting.

"Something special?" The green eyes gleamed. "It's special all right. It's one of yours - that seems appropriate. How did your notes describe it – _'slow and unpleasant'_? Sounds special to me. Does that ring any bells? Yes, I can see it does."

_Savour?_ Oh yes, he'd savour the horror on Snape's face for years to come.

Hermione lunged for the wands. But she hadn't reckoned with her socks: the impetus of her spring slipped away with her feet, and her reaching hand swiped at empty air. Under attack, Harry kicked out and fired off the curse at the same time.

"_Desiccorpus!_"

As Hermione rolled into the corner with a yelp, clutching her ribs, Snape reeled back, his eyes bulging with astonishment.

"Bravo, Potter," he gasped. "A lucky…choice."

Transfixed by the enormity of what had just happened, by the imminence of death, the two teenagers stared at the cursed man. An unnatural, purplish flush was flooding his ashen cheeks, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid, his chest heaving. The black, basilisk eyes whose glance could reduce a student to petrified silence, were sunken, bloodshot and blinking. Repeatedly he moistened dry lips, swallowed, had difficulty swallowing…

"Harry! What have you done?" screamed Hermione. She leaped to help Snape as, gasping, he scrabbled to loosen the cloak fastenings and buttons at his neck. "Harry! Do something! Reverse the spell!"

She caught Snape as he staggered, and lowered him into a chair. His skin was hot – too hot – but dry, as parched as his cracking lips. The water glass he had given her earlier was still on the table, half full. He fell on it like a burning heretic, gagging as the liquid turned to dust in his mouth.

"Snape, how do we stop it? What's happening to you?" she cried. "What can we do?"

"Dry," he rasped in between ragged breaths. Dry was the word. Before her eyes, his body seemed to be shrivelling, desiccating… His skin was becoming as arid as sun-baked clay; deep, bloodless cracks were opening around his eyes, his lips, his fingers. Hermione couldn't bear to look at him.

"Harry!" she shouted, frantic now. "What did the spell say? Was there an antidote? Think, Harry! Did the book say anything else at all?"

The boy's face was blank. Slowly he turned his benumbed mind back to the old Potions book. It was months since he had seen it. How was he supposed to remember…?

"Dry up!" he answered mechanically. "In brackets after the title it said 'Dry up!' and then some scribble I couldn't read."

Hermione bent despairingly over Snape.

Dry up? What – his skin? Everything? Bodily fluids? Blood, sweat and tears? Saliva? Lymph? If he was dehydrating, if his blood was coagulating… What would kill him first – a stroke? A heart attack? Slow and unpleasant. Slow? Yes, by comparison with Avada Kedavra. Unpleasant? Ever the master of understatement. Panicking, she refilled the glass and thrust it into Snape's trembling hands, while she soused a tea-towel. If she didn't lower his temperature, he'd die of a seizure anyway.

"Harry!" she shrieked. "Do '_Finite!_' for God's sake. Stop the spell. It's horrible. Please, Harry."

But Harry had frozen, appalled at the dying proof of what he had done. Revenge in the raw was an unsavoury dish, hot or cold. His wand hung limply by his side.

"Give me that." Hermione snatched it out of his hand. "_Finite Incantatem!_ Oh, no, maybe you have to say it. You were the one who cast the spell. Harry, for my sake, say it. Harry, I'm begging you."

"_Finite Incantatem!_" he mumbled without conviction, about as animated as an automaton, but too shocked to refuse. It made no difference.

Snape had collapsed over the table, his body twitching in a series of hideous spasms. _Oh Lord, it'll be convulsions next_, predicted Hermione. _I can't let it happen. I won't let it happen._

"Harry! Stop being so utterly useless. Open the door, will you? And come and give me a hand. Just do it."

Together they manhandled Snape's dead weight out into the teeming rain and slumped him onto the grass.

"What are you trying to do, drown him?" asked Harry, curiously detached, as though Snape were a stranger, or an unwanted kitten in a sack. "He looks weird, doesn't he? Sort of mummified. Talk about the _Hand of Glory_… You could try selling him in Knockturn Alley…"

"**Shut up!**" Hermione was on her knees on the lawn, peeling back layers of Snape's clothes, exposing bare, burning skin to the water. "We've got to cool him down, keep his skin damp," she puffed. "If he's not sweating, he'll overheat – his body'll be like a pressure cooker…" Not to mention the build up of toxins and salts – just a few other competitors in the race to kill him.

Harry retreated to the shelter of the doorway; a dying Snape wasn't worth getting wet for. His hatred had evaporated along with the curse into a cloud of contradiction: fantasies had become nightmares; revenge tasted bitter; his friend was helping his foe; his enemy was his ally.

"…parchment!" Hermione was screaming at him again. _Getting very shrill these days, was Hermione…_

"Get the damn parchment," she repeated. "From the table. Waterproof it – use _Impervius!_ Hurry!"

_Snape's not the only one who's cracked… If she thinks he's a Horcrux, she's lost it, big time. _He dabbed his wand at the pages and handed them over.

**xxx**

Rain streamed down her face with the tears as she stood, a forlorn figure, casting spell after spell at the prostrate form on the ground. Dogged, driven, desperate… she would **not** let him die. Not here, not now, not like this. This was ignoble, it was shabby, sordid; it was all so pointless, so futile. Oh, hell, what would her parents say if they came home to find a dead wizard in their back garden? _Don't die, damn you!_ Another charm curled from her wand, wafted around Snape in sinuous, watery wisps and washed away into the night.

The next one will work; the next one will halt the effect… she told herself, dragging her sleeve across her eyes, consulting the parchment. They're Counter Curses, aren't they? Something must work. Something. Must. Work. They were her last hope. Struggling with the unfamiliar incantations, choking back despair, she chanted, mouthing the curse-breakers over and over, first one, then the next, reversing and repeating… refusing to give up. Her wand traced hieroglyphs, cryptograms, ciphers…

Snape's shrunken body arched and fell with each new impact, as the bolts of anti-magic ripped through him.

"He's a goner," called Harry. "Give up. Come inside. It's over."

"It is **not** over. I'm going to cancel that curse if it kills me," she swore, careless of the irony, clinging to denial as her only lifeline. "It's not over… It's not over… It's not over…" she sobbed in defeat, letting her wand fall and sinking again to her knees. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

In the dreadful stillness, she barely noticed that the rain had stopped. The elements ceded to the finality of death.

She stroked the lifeless hand, brushing away the caked mud from between his wasted fingers where, in spasm, they had clawed at the soil. An encrusted smear of blood and mucus darkened one nostril. The soaking fabric of his shirt flapped loosely, exposing the corrugated, leathery hide that had once been his bare chest. Averting her eyes, Hermione pulled the cotton together, and, fumbling at the fastenings, buttoned up his dignity for the last time.

"Oh, Sir. It's over now; it's all over," she murmured. A simple litany. "It's finished. You don't have to fight any more. No more lies, Sir. No more pain. No more pain…"

Loose blades of grass were stuck to his cheek and caught in the black mats of dank hair the rain had plastered to his head. Tenderly, she wiped them away, pushing the damp strands out of his eyes and mouth.

Was he at peace now?

At peace. At rest. At last.

**End of chapter.**

**Please don't lynch me. Please have faith. Please keep reading…**

1 '…coward.' Obviously a quote from HBP.


	16. Binary Stars

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer: The characters etc are the property of JK and her publishers.**

**A/N: Rumours of my evilness are grossly exaggerated. I hope this chapter restores your faith. It follows on immediately from the previous one.**

**Thanks to you all for your reviews and for caring so much about Snape.**

**As always, special thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their advice and encouragement at first draft stage.**

**Chapter 16 : BINARY STARS**

Hermione had lost track of how long she had been kneeling on the lawn, keeping vigil beside Snape's body. She was drenched and chilled; her hair hung in draggled, dripping ropes, but none of that mattered now. For the moment, nothing mattered. Grief, rage, panic, remorse – all had ceased to have meaning; there was neither disbelief nor acceptance. She had simply stepped out of this sensory universe into numbness, into a limbo of loss. Her own existence was her only reality; even that made no sense. She was alive; he was dead. How could that be? How could he be gone? So soon, so suddenly? One minute alive; the next… nothing. All that intellect, that vitality… gone. What a waste, a senseless, shameful waste. It was all wrong. Wrong. Wrong. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Was this all it came down to: barely a paragraph in _Tyrants and Traitors, _a footnote in revised editions of_ Hogwarts: A History_? Severus Snape, snuffed by his own spell, at the hand of the Chosen One. And Harry, yet again, in defiance of truth and honour, would emerge the hero.

Shifting her position, Hermione stretched over to straighten the hem of Snape's cloak, wrapping the sodden, heavy fabric more closely round him, smoothing the folds into place. _Don't get cold, Sir_, she murmured, knowing that he couldn't hear her. With such ministrations do we pay our last respects. With such little acts of caring, neglected in life, do we fill the emptiness of lost opportunity.

A scaly eyelid twitched.

"Snape?"

Pressing doubtful fingers to the string and sinew neck, Hermione found a new pulse, feeble and thready but life-affirming. Buried in his chest a faint breath wheezed.

"Snape!"

Within the withered husk of the man, unseen magic worked on methodically, cell by cell, fibre by filament, neutralising the spell.

"Harry!" she whooped. "Harry! He's alive! He's still alive! He moved!"

Harry reappeared at the kitchen door, a tumbler in hand, having helped himself to a generous shot of her dad's 'purely medicinal' _Remy Martin_.

"He's what? You sure?" His bitter cocktail of alarm and disdain was blended with a mystery ingredient, which Hermione, had she thought about it, might have identified as hope.

"He's still breathing."

"Couldn't it be a reflex thing? You know, like corpses are meant to sigh, or something. Death rattle. It's to do with trapped gasses…"

Hermione hardly heard. Elation had been ruthlessly evicted by a sense of dire emergency. _Should she call an ambulance? How would she explain Snape's condition? Try to Apparate with him to St Mungo's?_ Light as he was in his shrunken state, she didn't think she could support his weight that long. _Or should she steal a car, and drive him to the nearest hospital? She'd had a few lessons; her clutch control was still very jerky, but… Oh, what was she thinking?_

"We'd better get him inside," she announced, snatching up her wand from where, in despair, she had let it fall. "_Alohomora!_ _Mobilicorpus!_"

In the last hours, her 'magic at home' embargo had been spectacularly broken - a few more spells couldn't make any difference. If anyone had been monitoring activity at the Grangers' house that evening, they would have witnessed the magical equivalent of an anonymous star going supernova.

"Open up the French doors, Harry. Quickly. I'm going to levitate him into the sitting room."

"Make up your mind," the boy grumbled, knocking back the brandy in a single swig, and feeling the spirit surging like relief throughout his body. So he had not murdered anyone today. "Get him out, get him in. He's dead, he's alive. He's too hot, he's too cold; he's too dry, he's too wet…"

Would her parents be any less put out, Hermione wondered, to discover their daughter nursing a sick, wet, grass-stained wizard on their new Wesley Barrell sofa? This was going to take more than a few squares of chocolate. Keeping her wand movements smooth and steady, she lowered Snape's body as scrupulously as a forensic specimen that might disintegrate on contact. Crookshanks' cat blanket lay on the chair cushion, a vain protection from muddy paw-marks. Shaking it out, she tucked it with infinite care around the unconscious man. She was almost looking forward to his inevitable complaints about the cat hair on his clothes.

Harry, his face ugly with disapproval, perched on the arm of the other chair, a less than impartial observer, tapping his wand against his leg. _Why hadn't he killed Snape when he had the chance? What had shaken his resolve? There was something about Hermione's faith in the man that had stayed his hand. He had always trusted her judgement… Now he doubted his own. Could he conceivably have been wrong about him?_

"How's he doing?"

"What do you care?" Hermione flamed as fiercely as a blowtorch. It would be a long, long time before she could forgive Harry for this night. Snape was starting to shiver violently under the blanket - was that an improvement? His pulse was stronger. Hermione fetched a cloth, ice, water. Dabbing at his face, she wiped away the worst of the mud splashes. Already his skin was smoother, less wizened, the cracks less prominent. The moisture was visibly seeping back into his system.

"Looks sort of _small_, doesn't he?" Harry remarked next. He'd never before realised quite how much of Snape's powerful presence derived from his personality rather than his stature.

"Look, Harry, if you can't say anything helpful, keep quiet. Don't just sit there gloating. And put that wand away. He's hardly going to retaliate now."

_No, but you might._ Harry had seen enough of Hermione's temper over the years to know that she had a flashpoint beyond which she could be dangerous. She was furious already.

"Harry, don't you ever learn? You had no idea what that spell was. What do you think that book is – some kind of magical lucky dip? What were you doing – leaving it to chance? It doesn't absolve you from responsibility, you know. That wretched book! It's been nothing but trouble. What did you think a 'Drying up' spell would do – cure a runny nose?"

It had been part of the excitement – not knowing what would happen. Harry had enough faith in the Potions book to be confident that none of the spells would be enjoyable. It was a shame he couldn't remember more of them. The ethics of using Snape as a human guinea pig hadn't concerned him. The man deserved whatever he got.

"I thought it would be like 'Shut up'; another version of 'Langlock!' or something like that. How was I supposed to know?"

"Exactly! You didn't know. Didn't disembowelling Draco teach you anything? You could have killed Snape."

"I _wanted_ to kill him," he pointed out, reasonably enough. They both spoke in low, charged whispers. "At least, I thought I did. Oh, I don't know. I wanted to _scare_ him. I didn't realise…"

"So what's wrong with the Killing Curse? Isn't that what it's for?" _Thank goodness you didn't use it._

At the time his reasons had seemed perfectly rational; now he wasn't so sure.

"It was the way he made the Unforgivables sound so…common." Harry knew that was a lame excuse. "I could tell he wanted to put me off using them. Ah, but then he realised that I'd use one of his own spells instead. So he started downplaying those, too - saying that they'd only be good for hanging him upside down and so on. But I was onto him. He was implying that his spells were trivial. But, you see, I know they're incredibly powerful, like Sectumsempra. That's the real reason he didn't want me using them. But I called his bluff, didn't I?"

Hermione didn't even attempt to follow the logic. Were they talking about the same conversation? Out in the hall the phone rang… and rang. Seeing that Hermione had no intention of leaving Snape's side in order to answer it, Harry dubiously picked up the receiver.

"…No, it's Harry. Yes. Oh, OK. Yes. When? No, but thank you. Yes, I'll tell her. Bye. - So who's Burger Boy?" he asked, mystified. "That was your dad. He says a lorry's jack-knifed in the rain on the flyover and he and your mum are stuck in a tailback that stretches as far as the ring road. They could be a couple of hours. Oh, and your mum wants you to put some baking potatoes in the oven."

Hermione offered up thanks to the weather. An extra couple of hours could make all the difference. In an angry undertone, she demanded, "Why are you here anyway? Not in this room now, but here at my house. Why did you come tonight?"

Harry shuffled and squirmed. This wasn't the cosy, brotherly talk he'd planned.

"I promised Ron I'd have a chat with you. He's got this idea… He's got it into his head that you're seeing someone else – Neville, actually. He thinks you and Neville have got something going." He forestalled Hermione's scoffing denial, adding, "Ron's right, isn't he? Or at least, he's got the right idea – just the wrong bloke."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Come off it, Hermione. You've been sitting there _holding his hand_. I saw you. Are you mad? What the hell's going on? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. I wouldn't believe you anyway. But don't give me that innocent 'I don't know what you mean' crap."

"I think you'd better go. **Go**. Now."

Hermione couldn't explain her feelings to herself let alone to Harry. What was Snape to her? Both more and less than a friend. Neither a parent nor a lover. A partner? A mentor? An ally? The words sounded so clinical. She felt… like a binary star, locked into Snape's gravitational pull: they were destined to go through the universe circling each other at a distant, fixed orbit. It was as if, on some long-forgotten shelf in the Ministry, there was another dusty orb, another prophecy in which their fates were inextricably linked. There was a connection between them; she was involved, for better, for worse. Neville understood; Harry never would.

"Harry, take the Counter Curses and make yourself scarce. You won't want to be here when he wakes up."

**XXX**

Long lashes fluttered; dark eyes scraped open, squinting in the light, flashing alarm and disorientation. They ranged at random over the unfamiliar cream and white walls, before settling on the one thing they recognised – Hermione. Snape's face relaxed a fraction. His lungs laboured, dredging silted scoops of breath from the air. Dry lips parted but no words formed.

"Shhh, don't try to talk. Just breathe normally. Concentrate on your breathing. That's it. You're going to be fine, Sir. No, you mustn't move. Lie still, Sir. Give it time. Rest now, Sir; you need to rest."

Hermione spoke softly, calming and soothing, seeing not only Snape but a frightened man in pain, confusion and distress. _Did he remember what had happened? Did he know how close he'd been to death?_ She slipped a sliver of ice between his cracked lips to melt on his tongue.

"More?"

Bloodshot eyes blinked an affirmative. He sucked, holding the ice in his mouth until the cold burned, appreciating the revival of his senses. The satisfaction was short-lived. Sensation returned hand in hand with pain. Under the blanket, Snape's knees drew towards his chest as he doubled-up, creased into a cruel mockery of the foetal position. For an awful moment, it seemed to Hermione that he was shrinking again, that the curse had won, that all she had achieved was to prolong his torment and delay the inevitable. Minutes passed; minutes of mute endurance. Uncertain whether or not he could tolerate being touched, Hermione stayed close by his side, there, with him. She'd be with him for as long as it took. If he was going to die now, he would not be alone. Calmly this time, she waited for the end. But, silently within him, new blood forced its way through collapsed capillaries, organs pulsed, constricted passages plumped and dilated, strictures unknotted. Higher sensation now revived in a series of vicious pins-and-needles shocks, which jolted through his nervous system, leaving him gasping and rigid. Each fresh onslaught seemed more violent than the last until, with an awful, involuntary moan, he slipped out of consciousness once more and sank limply into the sofa.

_You're better off this way_, thought Hermione, pressing a cloth to catch a bead of sweat trickling from his forehead towards his ear. _You don't need to be awake through this. It'll get better. It has to get better. _Daring the unthinkable, she brushed her fingers against his rough cheek, stroking away the pain.

**XXX**

Hermione bent closer to hear.

"Next time I'll settle for Crucio." The raking whisper might be prophetic. Neither of them could pretend that there would not be a next time.

"Oh, Sir. Don't say that." It had been bad enough seeing him curled and prostrate on the grass, let alone writhing in the agony of a Crucio. "That spell was diabolical." She gazed at him anxiously, afraid he might still crumble, that she had not done enough to heal him. Magical medicine was so unpredictable: when Harry had cracked his skull at Quidditch, he had been kept in the hospital wing for one night only; while Ron, recovering from the poison, was there for over a week, solemnly taking his Essence of Rue. When Katie was cursed she had been in St Mungo's for weeks. Dumbledore's hand had never recovered… Hermione didn't know exactly what had happened to Snape, or what to do for the best. Now that he'd woken up, he might be perfectly fine. Or… _Would there be any lasting effects?_ _Had she saved him only to condemn him to a depleted, damaged life? He'd hate her for that; he'd rather be dead._ "Are you all right?"

She could see him working for the saliva to moisten his lips and throat. He swallowed… bristles, thorns, thistles, cinders, gravel.

"Better than I expected to be." He _knew_. So his memory had survived intact. "Bloody Potter!" The thought of Harry was enough to enrage him.

Hermione couldn't blame him for hating Harry now; he had every reason. Tonight had cemented their mutual antipathy. The loathing was reciprocal. Well, it consolidated her own role: they'd never be able to communicate without an intermediary.

"Don't worry about Harry, Sir. He's gone. I'll talk to him. I'll make him understand."

"You do that. I'm damned if I will!" Anger flushed in his cheeks. He lay back, panting, hot and agitated. Getting upset over Harry wasn't helping. All Hermione could think to do was to ply him with water.

"You should try to drink something, Sir. You'll need to drink loads to rehydrate yourself. Any Muggle doctor would put you straight on a drip. Can you sit up? Here…"

After a few grateful gulps, Snape sank back weakly onto the sofa. Every muscle ached abominably, his head was pounding; he couldn't fight the exhaustion any longer. He wanted to sleep forever, and then some. For the first time in weeks he felt he might sleep safely, as long as… His eyes sagged shut, then startled open, wide and wary, searching out the girl, checking for her, finding her...

"You rest, Sir. I'll be right here," she promised.

**XXX**

"How do you feel?"

He had slept for little more than an hour: as much as his instincts would allow himself; not nearly enough for his body's needs. Now that he was more properly awake, Hermione was embarrassed to touch him, even to check his temperature. She was sure her presence was more of an irritation than a comfort.

"Damp." Snape fingered the clammy fabric of his cloak, his nose wrinkling in distaste. Nothing wrong with his sense of smell either, Hermione noted in relief. From the blanket there arose the unmistakeable, musky odour of wet cat.

"Yes, I'm sorry about that, Sir. You really should get out of those clothes. I didn't dare try a Drying Charm. I could do one now, if you'd like."

Alarm forked into the dark eyes, and Snape clutched the blanket around him more closely. Hermione saw the momentary shudder and didn't insist; there were worse things than being wet. She'd turn the central heating up in a minute, and hang his cloak in the boiler room.

"But, apart from that, Sir. How do you feel?" She could see the residual bruising on his hands and face, see the sudden clenching of muscles in cramp; she could only guess at the rest.

"Like a de-activated Horcrux, I assume." Symptoms, signs of weakness, were adroitly side-stepped. "Which spell -?"

"…reversed the curse? I really don't know. I went through the whole list." _Several times._ "I didn't think… I didn't think that…" _That they were going to work. I watched you dying._

The strain of being brave forced her to look away.

"Typical Granger thoroughness. For once, your perseverance is much, ah, appreciated." So incisive when it came to sarcasm, Snape struggled to articulate a simple 'thank you'. His voice was strained, quiet, low, muffled by the blanket. "It seems I am in your debt, for a second time.(1)"

Hermione couldn't have cared less about the formalities of wizard life-debts. Like sun-spots emblazoned on the cornea, the picture of his lifeless, ravaged body was ever-present before her eyes.

"Oh, Sir, seeing you like that…"

"If the memory offends your delicate sensibilities, I could -"

"What? Obliviate me? So that I forget any of this has ever happened? So that your precious, unbreakable image remains intact? No, Sir. How can you even suggest it? Do you think I would want to forget that you've had to go through all this? No, it wasn't nice, it wasn't pretty… It was… ghastly," she whispered, "but it wouldn't be right… it wouldn't be fair, if… if you had to deal with this on your own. Not when you don't have to…"

She faltered into the awkwardness that accompanies an unsolicited offer. It was up to Snape now: acceptance or rejection. The protracted silence bored shafts of embarrassment into her spine.

"Now I know how the slugs feel," said Snape eventually, evasively.

"Slugs?" Half-relieved, the girl turned back with a watery smile.

"That spell was never intended for humans. I had marked it as such. (2) One can get tired of shooting down flies…"

Soon, too soon, he was impatient to be up. Hermione watched, aching to help but holding back, as Snape levered himself into a sitting position. He paused, eyes closed, breathing through the accompanying tide of nausea and dizziness as the room spun around him, only slowly resolving to a standstill.

"Sir?" _Damn Harry! Damn Harry to hell!_

"I'm all right." He raised a tentative hand to his face, exploring each feature in a series of cautious presses, cradling his throbbing forehead for a moment, then grimacing, stretching into his newly tightened skin, trying it on like jeans that have shrunk in the wash. Experimentally, he gripped his hand into a fist, then flexed the crimped fingers, straightening them to their full length. One by one he worked his way through the muscle groups, tensing and flexing, assessing the discomfort, testing his limitations. Hermione knew he was steeling himself to move, to leave.

"You manoeuvred Harry into choosing one of your own spells, didn't you? He thinks he called your bluff." She wanted to sidetrack him, detain him.

"That boy's not fit to be in charge of a wand," Snape growled. "If the fate of wizardry rests in his hands, Merlin help us! You're right though. Potter is suggestible. Wandless, I could not hope to deflect or block an Unforgivable. I wished to divert him from those."

"I'm sorry I botched getting back our wands." _I am so inept, so not-cut-out to be an action heroine. _

"The majority of my own spells can be counteracted before they prove fatal." Snape shrugged away her apology.

"And the others?"

"Are without antidote. It was a calculated risk. Potter made a lucky choice. Or…" He pulled a face. "…lucky for him. 'Dessicorpus' is one of the few. It had never occurred to me that anyone might wish to resuscitate a slug."

He looked anxiously about him.

"Where is my wand? If Potter's taken it…" He threw aside the blanket. Hermione put a restraining hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently down. She still wasn't at all happy about his breathing.

"Don't you get up, Sir. He's probably left it in the kitchen. I'll fetch it for you."

**XXX**

Harry was still in the kitchen. He'd polished off another tot of brandy, by the look of the bottle, and half a packet of Chocolate Digestives. On the table before him lay the two wands, hers and Snape's.

"I thought I told you to go." Hermione picked up the bottle and, pointedly, put it back in the cupboard, letting the door bang shut.

"What, and leave you alone with that… that… with _him_? Not bloody likely."

"Oh, and what's he going to do to me, after you half killed him? And what are you going to do about it anyway – curse him again?"

"If I have to." Unrepentant.

Their eyes slid, simultaneously, to the table top. Hermione's _'Accio!'_ brought her wand skimming back into her palm, but Harry's reflexes had been sharp: Snape's wand was pinned under his hand; he had no intention of relinquishing it without a fight.

"Give this back? Are you crazy? Hermione, we've got him cornered. If you think I'm just going to hand it over and let him go -"

"Get out, Harry. I don't need you to protect me. Give me the wand, and **get out**. I can't speak to you. There are things we need to discuss, but not now." She was too incensed to talk.

"All right, all right, I'm going." Harry got up.

"Harry?"

"**What?**"

"You won't say anything to Ron, will you? Not yet. I'll speak to him."

"I don't know why I'm not calling the Aurors. I hope you know what you've got yourself into, Hermione. But just tell me one thing: can you honestly say that you _trust _that murdering bastard?"

"I…er, well…" How could she explain the distinction; the shifting, subtle strata of trust and honesty? She trusted Snape as far as the 'end' was concerned, but as for the 'means'…

"Transparent, Miss Granger. What did I tell you?"

Snape had somehow got himself up off the sofa and followed her from the sitting room. He stood now in the kitchen doorway, looking sick and shaky but upright, steadying himself against the doorframe, glaring at them both.

"My wand, Potter."

Harry realised that Hermione's wand was pointing straight at his throat, her expression anything but friendly. With bad grace, he smacked the wand into Snape's outstretched hand. Their eyes locked in mutual loathing.

"Sir, you're not going?" _You're not nearly well enough… You're in no state to Apparate. You can't go back to that horrible place. _Hermione moved towards him, but he brushed aside her supporting arm.

"Every minute I stay makes my position more precarious. I must leave." _Don't make this any more difficult than it already is. _

Walking with brittle stiffness, he pushed past them to the back door. A rush of cooling summer air carried in the sweet'n'sour compost smell of saturated earth and sodden grass. Snape shivered as he stepped into the night.

"From now on, Potter," he snarled, "you're on your own."

**End of chapter.**

**1 'in your debt for a second time'. The first time is in THE CHOSEN, where Hermione and Neville supply Snape with a life-saving cure for the Hippogriff injury.**

**2 The scribble next to the spell, which Harry failed to remember. (If he had remembered, would it have deterred him?) Snape had previously demonstrated the correct use of this spell to Neville when he visited him in the garden.**


	17. Turning the Tide

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer****: The characters belong to JK and her publishers etc. **

**A/N****: I would have posted this sooner, but with ffnet alerts not working I decided to wait.**

**In my original draft, this was the final chapter. Since then I have added another SSHG chapter and an absurdly long epilogue…**

**The usual thanks – to all of you for reviewing, and to Duj and Cecelle for their invaluable preview comments.**

**So, barely recovered from the Dessicorpus spell, a shaky Snape has walked out on Harry… **

**Chapter 17:TURNING THE TIDE**

**"_You did as one who, walking by night_**

_**Carries the light behind him, where it does him no good,**_

_**But is of advantage to those who come after him."**_

_**Dante. Purgatorio XXII**_

_Phoenix flames… a fledgling reborn amongst hot, dry ashes; puckered, wrinkled skin and wizened limbs…blistered owl eyes, blinking, red, inflamed; the strangled caw of a choking crow…_

_'Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo'. The owl, hooting, moon eyes wider, wider… swallowed by… a cuckoo, grown too large for the nest, pecking, pecking, cooing, 'Cuckoo, cuckoo!'… A woodpecker tapping… tapping… Tapping… Knock on wood. Knock, knock…_

"Hermione!"

"Hmph? What? What…?"

She woke up in a rush of incomprehension, her conscious mind snatching an extra few seconds before it ratcheted the floodgates open and allowed the memories to come crashing through.

Someone was knocking on her bedroom window.

After a night of fretful recriminations, it had been dawn before she had pitched into a troubled, dream-infested doze, so different from the oblivion she craved. She had thought Harry would never leave. Thwarted, furious and more frightened than he wanted her to know, he had turned on her, angrily demanding explanations, slating her with accusations and ribald insinuations. And she hadn't had any answers for him; she hardly knew herself what had happened between her and Snape last night. Now, fogged with interrupted sleep, Hermione peered out into dazzling daylight. She fumbled with the latch. A flurry of fragrant, ginger-haired enthusiasm scrambled onto the sill and clambered inside.

"Gosh, you take some waking up!" exclaimed Ginny. "I've been 'yoo-hoo-ing' and 'cooee-ing' and knocking for yonks. You're not sick, are you? What did you do – OD on Dreamless Sleep?"

_Not dreamless, no._

"What's going on? How did you get here? What's wrong with the front door?" Hermione's befuddled brain was still in neutral.

"Didn't want to bother your parents. Fred Apparated with me and levitated me up. He's gone back home now. Said he'll see you later. But it doesn't matter about that. Oh, Hermione – you'll never guess…" Ginny radiated excitement.

_I think I might._

"It's - oh, it's so fantastic. I had to tell you. I can't believe it. Hermione - Mum's back! She's home. She's alive. After all this time! And she's all right. She's really back!"

_Oh, Snape, what have you done?_

"That's wonderful. You must be so relieved."

"I'll say. It's been mad at home, totally crazy. The twins are planning a humungous party with loads of fireworks and everything; they've already put a huge 'Welcome home Mum' banner right across the sitting room; and Charlie's coming back tonight; and Dad just keeps crying; and Ron's gone all moody and meaningful – but that's just an act; he's chuffed underneath. You mustn't mind him."

Ginny had discarded the weeks of worry like an unwanted envelope, and emerged glowing and vital, vibrant with poster colour happiness.

"Why should I mind Ron?" _What had he told his sister? What had Harry told him? _

Ginny flickered.

"Miserable grump. He was being funny about coming to fetch you. Harry's in a weird mood too. So I said I'd do it. Hey, I can't wait 'til I can Apparate on my own – isn't it the most mind-blowing thing ever? Come on, get up and we'll go."

"Go where?"

"Home. You're coming too."

"Oh, no, I don't think so. It should be a family time – I don't want to intrude." _Or see Ron. Or Harry._

"No arguments." Ginny, unstoppable this morning, had taken Hermione by the shoulders and was gently but firmly propelling her towards the bathroom. "Mum's asked to see you specially. See? You're almost one of the family already. It was about the first thing she said when she came round."

_Came round?_ As Hermione washed and took a few ineffectual swipes at her early-morning hair, the words assumed an ominous significance.

Back in the bedroom, Ginny had flung herself onto the bed and was lolling back on the pillows in a languorous, film star pose – decorously deceptive, as it turned out, for the moment Hermione reappeared she jumped up, all eagerness and action.

"Ready? You'll have to take me. Now, Fred says the thing about 'Side-along' is not to think about it. If you've mastered long distance – and Ron says you have -" (A pointed, 'we need to talk' tone bracketed that phrase.) "-it should be a doddle. It's not as though you haven't been to our place before; you know where to focus…"

Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, leaving room for her friend beside her. It was impossible to concentrate on Apparating when her thoughts were tumbling elsewhere.

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened. Sorry to burst your bubble and all that, Ginny, but I need to know."

The ginger head nodded, serious now, the effervescence flattening into something more sober.

"She was with You-Know-Who. He'd got her, abducted her, like we thought. He had her working for him -"

"Doing what?" _As if she didn't know._

A shake of the head this time.

"She hasn't really said. It must have been something grim. And we don't like to bombard her with too many questions. She's a bit, you know, feeble and confused. She'll get enough of that today, what with the Ministry and the Order…"

"The Ministry? They were quick off the mark." _Scrimgeour probably wanted to take the credit for a successful rescue._ Hermione expressed surprise, but Ginny for once sprang to the defence of the 'establishment'.

"It was jolly lucky Tonks was there. She'll get the Order of Merlin for this, I bet."

_Tonks?_

"She was round at our place for dinner. You know how Mum had sort of taken her under her wing? Well, it's got to be a habit now. She calls in quite often. So, after dinner… Ron and the twins were doing something upstairs – believe me, you don't want to know – and dad had gone to sleep reading the paper, and Bill and Fleur were having a go at Tonks… saying the Aurors hadn't organised a proper search, that they're so hung up on flushing out Death Eaters these days that they don't give a stuff about ordinary people, and Mum obviously wasn't a Departmental priority – that sort of thing. And Tonks was all fired up about this new anti-werewolf legislation… Well, I went out to lock up the chickens for the night – there's been a fox sniffing round the coops – so I missed most of the excitement," Ginny concluded ruefully.

Antsy with impatience, Hermione wasn't interested in foxes.

"_What_ excitement? Ginny, what _exactly_ happened?"

The air in the bedroom had become stuffy and unbreathable with tension. Consoling herself by minimising the drama, Ginny launched into a hearsay account.

"It seems there was this thud at the back door. Nobody knew what was going on. And Bill was like, 'Who's there?', 'What's the password?' No answer. So Tonks switches into Auror mode, while Bill opens the door. And there he is on the doorstep. Just standing there with Mum in his arms."

"Who?" Hermione's stomach had stepped into a lift shaft and plummeted several storeys.

"Oh, that's the weirdest thing. It was Snape. Can you imagine? He's got a bloody nerve! Turning up out of the blue? As bold as you please. It was pandemonium. All hell let loose. Everybody thought she was dead. Bill kind of grabbed her, and he was shouting for dad, and Fleur was going into French hysterics, and then they realised that she wasn't dead, only Stupefied, and the boys came rushing down… And all the time I was in the ruddy hen house. So typical."

Hermione was ready to explode with the worst kind of anticipation.

"And what about Snape?"

"What? Oh, you should have heard Fleur. Changed her tune. 'Ze Tonks woz, ow you say, _formidable!_' Yeah, Tonks was brilliant. You know, I've always thought she was a bit goofy, but last night she really did her stuff. Zapped him. No messing."

"Not Avada - ?"

"Full Body Bind. Didn't take any chances. _Petrificus!, Incarcerous! _and_ Stupefy! _And_ Silencio! _Arrested him on the spot. Funny that – you'd expect Snape to have put up more of a fight. What did he think he was doing? He'll be in a holding cell now. Unless they've already shipped him to Azkaban. Hey! What's the big rush? Where are you going?"

For Hermione had pulled on her trainers and was heading for the door.

"To talk to your mum. Come on."

**XXX**

For flowers and bouquets, The Burrow was running second only to Kensington Palace. Vases sprouted on every available surface - the window sills, table, sideboard – brimming with bunches of roses, posies of pansies, daffodils, dahlia, statice, Sweet William… Seasonality no object. Amidst the floral profusion, Mrs Weasley reclined on the sofa like a tired Titania(1) in her bower, or a single, fading, mop head hydrangea amidst a display of freshly cut chrysanthemums.

"Hello dear," she greeted Hermione with a worried, weary smile.

"Miss Granger." From behind a particularly fine and flamboyant spray of indigo lilies, which dwarfed the whole coffee table, the trim head of Professor McGonagall appeared. "Shut the door behind you, Hermione."

The girl advanced into the room, sensing through the perfume-laden air the unmaskable scent of distrust.

"It's good to have you back, Mrs Weasley," she offered.

"Thank you, dear. It's good to be back. For a while there… Oh, never mind. All's well that ends well. So, Hermione, I expect you can guess why I wanted to see you."

For every row of comfortable motherliness in life's knitted jumper, she purled a corresponding row of shrewd womanhood. Tonks was not the only one who could be formidable. The fulsome lamentations for the loss of Mrs Weasley had tended to overlook the more forceful side of her character.

"It's about Snape?" Just saying his name aloud was a relief. Molly's gaze was troubled, ambivalent but not actively hostile.

"He instructed me to contact you and Professor McGonagall. Do you have any idea why he would have done that?"

"Tell me what happened," Hermione pleaded. "Did something go wrong? He shouldn't have been arrested! Is he all right?"

A snort from McGonagall's chair showed precisely where the headmistress' sympathies lay.

"You, young lady, have a great deal of explaining to do. We're waiting…"

**xxx**

They took a lot of convincing, even Mrs Weasley who was predisposed to believe her. Hermione began with the Unbreakable Vow, the Borometz and Snape's Hippogriff injury, the meeting at Spinner's End, the subsequent rendezvous. Without mentioning the Horcruxes, she described how he had supplied information to assist Harry, and how Harry had repaid him with a lethal curse. She could see Mrs Weasley weighing her words like so many ounces of flour and sugar, sieving for lumps, and later testing the consistency of the mixture and tasting truth. McGonagall, lips sphincters of suspicion, listened in judgemental silence.

At last Molly reached out and, taking Hermione's hand, pressed it warmly.

"It must feel better to get it off your chest. Don't you worry, Hermione, you've done the right thing, telling us. Things will change now."

"Change?" McGonagall challenged. "None of this changes the fact that Snape killed Albus and that you, my girl, have been withholding vital information and colluding with a known enemy. What evidence do you have?"

_Wasn't Mrs Weasley the living evidence? Or the fact that she, Hermione, had met the 'murderer' on numerous occasions and had emerged unscathed?_

"Talk to Harry, if you don't believe me," she cried. "Or Neville. Or Mrs Longbottom. Ask her about Narcissa. Go to the Ministry and talk to Snape himself. Get some of his memories and look at them in the Pensieve. There must be a wizard somewhere who can tell whether or not they've been doctored. Try to get some sense out of Dumbledore's portrait. Ask him if he's left any memories that will corroborate what I've told you. At least give Snape the chance to defend himself. He's not denying that he killed Professor Dumbledore, but that his motive -"

"Oh, we are well aware of his motive, thank you very much," interrupted McGonagall, the note of jaded cynicism still grating in her voice.

"Have you heard a word this child has been saying?" Mrs Weasley, having adopted Hermione too into the fold, was now staunchly protecting her 'young'. "It all fits, Minerva." She turned an enlightened face to the professor. "If what Hermione says is true, it explains a lot. Why he's been… not exactly friendly, but _civil_ to me all this time. He even gave me this…" Working her hand into the pocket of her skirt, Molly extracted several crumpled tissues, a comb, two wax crayons and a small, empty glass phial. Hermione recognised it immediately as one of the medicine bottles she had salvaged from Snape's room. "My, er, nerves were on edge," Mrs Weasley explained, seeming to think she needed to justify accepting anything from Snape.

"That's as may be." McGonagall was unbending. "But, Molly, the man's a consummate liar. I'm surprised you fell for that old trick. _Ingratiating_ himself. It didn't take much, did it?"

"Now, wait a minute! You don't know what it was like – on my own in that godforsaken place every day, never knowing whether…" The bubble of annoyance, which had been drifting back and forth between the two women on a cool undercurrent of antagonism, suddenly popped. They glared at each other.

"So, what did he say to persuade you?" It was McGonagall who backed down first. Molly thought about it.

"Well, nothing, really. You see, we hardly had a chance to speak unobserved… …but he was more than helpful with administering the potions. At full moon, for instance… Oh those poor, poor children! What will they do?" Sorrow and solicitude combined in a desolate wail. Dabbing her eyes, she tried to put the fate of the were-children out of her mind. There was nothing she could do for them now.

"Tell us about Snape," Hermione urged gently. If McGonagall had not been with them, she might have tried to console Mrs Weasley, but somehow, in the repressive presence of the headmistress, the atmosphere wasn't right. Molly took a moment to compose herself.

"So, last night," she went on, "it was late and he came rushing into my room – well, you'd hardly call it a room, but anyway – he rushed in, barking at me that the game was up and we had to leave immediately. He didn't seem… he didn't seem _himself_, but there wasn't time for questions. If there's one thing I've learned it's that you don't question Death Eaters, if you know what's good for you." A brave observation veiling horrors Hermione could only guess at. She was thankful that Molly didn't elaborate. "He hustled me out; barely had time to tell me to contact you two before we were being pursued. They seemed to come out of nowhere. There were spells firing off in all directions. But, I'm afraid, I don't remember anything after that." The apologetic smile couldn't conceal her distress.

"Don't upset yourself, Molly. You were Stupefied, that's all. And Severus brought you here." McGonagall could be almost sensitive when she tried.

_Why hadn't the Death Eaters followed them to The Burrow? They must have had a fair idea of where Snape was taking Mrs Weasley. Or perhaps they had. Hermione shuddered to imagine it. Perhaps the Death Eaters had been there all along, revelling in the sight of the spy being Petrified and arrested by his own side. The Ministry would do Voldemort's work for them._

"But if I'd been conscious -" Molly protested.

"Well, you weren't," the Scot said, dourly practical. Over the last few minutes, her expression had become increasingly thoughtful and determined.

"Did he say why the 'game was up'?" asked Hermione. _Was Voldemort onto him? How had he blown his cover?_

Mrs Weasley squinted through a haze to the previous evening.

"Something to do with Occlumency, I fancy. He didn't say much, and we were running… both out of breath… I couldn't hear properly – and his voice was different somehow – hoarse – I couldn't catch it. Now it all makes sense…"

Hermione had heard enough. _So Snape had been questioned as to his absence, and for once hadn't been strong enough to block Voldemort's Legilimens. Why, __**why**__ hadn't he stayed with her until he felt better? Proud, impossible man. And well done, Harry! Alienating Snape __**and**__ losing him his credibility with Voldemort. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot, Harry. You've discarded your trump card. 'From now on, Potter, you're on your own'. Had Snape realised, even then, the implications?_

"I don't know about you, but I could do with a nice cup of tea," Mrs Weasley declared, hospitable instincts rising like warm dough. Left to her own devices, she'd be baking bread.

"Not for me, Molly." McGonagall rose decisively, smoothing out her robes and gathering her cloak about her. "I have an urgent errand at the Ministry. I must make haste if I wish to prevent a potentially gross miscarriage of justice. Would you mind if I used your Floo?"

**XXX**

Mrs Weasley relaxed back against the lumpy cushions with a self-deprecating sigh.

"I feel such a fraud. Lazing around like Lady Muck. There must be a million and one jobs that need doing."

"Oh, no, you've got to rest. I think Fleur and Ginny have things more or less under control." Hermione tried to be reassuring, but it came out wrong.

"So I'm redundant and replaceable, is that it? We'll see about that!"

Hermione blushed and stammered a retraction, uncertain whether or not she was being teased. Mrs Weasley had been supportive so far, but there was something false in her manner, something that suggested it was only a matter of time before gratitude gave way to criticism. Mrs Weasley's Howlers were legendary. Moving to the window, Hermione braced herself for a live performance.

In the yard the tatty cockerel, one brown tail feather bent and trailing in the dirt, strutted amongst his clucking harem. Ignoring him, the hens scraped and pecked. Hermione watched them without interest. With one finger she stirred up the dish of Neville's _pot pourri_ which sat on the sill and, picking out a crinkly bruise-purple rose petal, rubbed and rolled it under her thumb, backwards and forwards, until there was nothing there but dust.

"Don't think you're off the hook, my girl."

This was it then. Turning, Hermione saw that Mrs Weasley was sitting up, her expression less friendly than before.

"Just because Minerva has acted on your story, it doesn't mean she's happy about it. Nor am I, for that matter. All this sneaking about. Lies, cheating… Trespassing on school property, breaking into a teacher's private rooms; secret meetings… What did you think you were up to? Anyone else but Snape…That would have been bad enough – but Snape? A Death Eater? Have you no common sense? Didn't you stop to think how dangerous it was? I've a good mind to contact your parents. And have a word with Augusta Longbottom. The risks, Hermione? What about the risks? How are we going to explain all this? Next thing we know you'll be up before the Ministry yourself. We'll have to say he used Imperius. I can't see any other way out of it."

Hermione couldn't see how that would help at all. Accusing Snape of another Unforgivable would merely compound the problem. And why was Molly being difficult all of a sudden? Had she decided to ignore the fact of her rescue?

"And another thing," Molly went on heatedly, though her decibel level was nowhere near maximum. "You had better have a long, hard think about what you're going to say to my Ronald. He's a good boy. He's done nothing to deserve this. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, Hermione, but Ron's very fond of you, and whatever makes him happy…"

"There's nothing _going on_, if that's what you think." The girl defended herself, but without conviction. Mrs Weasley sagged back into her cushions, too tired to argue for long.

"Whatever you say, dear. You know me, I don't interfere in my children's lives, but I really do think you should have a word with Ron. Now's as good a time as any. I'll give him a shout."

Hermione's protest cut her off as she gathered her breath.

"Not now – please! I can't think…" _…about anything except Snape right now_. "I mean, I need time to work out exactly what I'm going to say."

"Don't leave it too long," the protective mother warned.

**XXX**

The waiting was excruciating. Neither of them dared speculate what might be going on at the Ministry at that moment, but Snape dominated their thoughts. Absently, Hermione pinched the heavy pollen heads out of the lily flowers, squeezing the dusty, ochre anthers, staining her fingers an orangey, nicotine brown.

"Oh, sorry. Force of habit." She performed a rapid and embarrassed _Evanesco!_ before the pollen migrated to the rugs and upholstery, though Molly would probably not have noticed or minded. "It's poisonous to cats, you see. When we have lilies at home, I always have to…" she tailed off. "I'm such an idiot. I should have gone with her." Hermione was furious with herself for letting McGonagall go to the Ministry alone.

"Spilt milk, dear. What's done is done. Leave it up to Minerva. Besides, I think it very unlikely that they would have let you see him." Molly had read her wishes as clearly as if she'd been waving them on a placard. "He'll be top security. I don't suppose they'll let anyone go near him - not without a Polyjuice test, anyhow. I imagine there are quite a few people who would like to visit Snape right now."

"Death Eaters?" Suitably disguised, they'd be the first in the queue.

"And the rest. Why he had to make himself so unpleasant, I shall never know." Molly, gradually adjusting to the 'revised' Snape, was rueing the times she had been glad of his punctual departure from Order meetings, retrospectively blaming herself for not being more sociable. She remembered her relief at his refusal to dine at Grimmauld Place. "The way you kids all moaned about him, I assumed he must be an extremely nasty man – and he never gave me any reason to think otherwise."

Hermione smiled sadly.

"He wasn't always very nice," she agreed. "Or that's what he wanted people to think. He was so used to keeping everybody at arm's length that it had become a habit – ingrained, second-nature. But sometimes…" She glanced at the elder woman, wondering (especially in the light of her earlier doubts) whether to confide in her or not. "Sometimes I felt he had a human side too. It's just he hardly ever let his guard down. And even then I was never quite sure if I was being manipulated or not. He's just so… so _Slytherin_."

"I wouldn't say that saving me was a very Slytherin thing to do."

No, reflected Hermione, it wasn't. He could have saved himself - Apparated into hiding and left Molly to her fate.

"He must have let something slip. Accidentally, I mean. I _knew_ he should have stayed with me until he felt stronger. …Something that would make You-Know-Who suspect him, and so he decided to cut his losses and get out. Or maybe he'd just had enough. Even Azkaban would be preferable to what Vol- _'he'_ would do to him." _Had he been more shaken by Harry's spell than he had admitted? _

"That poor boy!" Mrs Weasley suddenly exclaimed. Hearing Snape described as a 'poor boy' was enough to twist Hermione's innards into strange contortions. Then she realised that the elder woman was not referring to Snape at all. "He must have been terrified. Coming upon you both… Small wonder he panicked."

"You're not making excuses for _Harry_?" Hermione couldn't believe her ears. Hadn't Molly heard anything she was saying?

"He only did what he thought was right, dear. He was protecting you. He wasn't to know."

"And he didn't take the time to find out. If he'd stopped for _one second_ to think, or to listen… But no, he comes in firing off spells as though he's… he's… Even Muggle police have to issue a warning before they shoot, but not Harry…" Her indignation came surging back. It was just as well Harry was staying out of her way. "Look, can we forget about Harry for a minute?"

Hermione leaned forwards, meeting Mrs Weasley's eye, ensuring this time that she had her full attention. What she was about to ask was important.

"You **will** tell people what happened, won't you? About what Snape did? You **do** believe me? You will try to make them understand? We… we're all he's got."

While acting undercover as a double agent, Snape's existence had depended on the ambiguity of his situation. Exposed as a spy, there was no longer any need for secrecy. He couldn't double-bluff his way out of this one. The truth could not hurt him now. It was time to speak out.

"I'll set Arthur straight, don't you fret." Molly was quietly confident. "And together he and I can tackle the boys and Ginny. Though whether Percy will listen…"

The mention of her 'lost' son's name was still enough to make Mrs Weasley's eyes swim. She dabbed away a tear.

"One step at a time, Hermione. This isn't going to happen overnight. We can have a go at persuading the Order. It will be up to Minerva to convince the staff at Hogwarts. If we can win over Tonks, she can be our mouthpiece at the Ministry. She's bound to find it strange that Snape didn't resist arrest. That'll get her thinking. You had better talk to your friend at _The Quibbler_ and start the publicity ball rolling. I told Arthur not to contact _The Prophet_ straight away, but it's my privilege to change my mind… It won't be easy though. Merlin knows, that man would never win a popularity contest. Talk about hiding one's light under a bushel."

Would there ever be a time, mused Hermione, when Snape could step out into that light – when the only shadows in his life would be those cast by the sun?

**XXX**

McGonagall returned over an hour later, spinning out of the Floo without even a stumble and sweeping into the room.

"I'll say 'yes' to that tea now, Molly, if it's still going," she muttered grimly, lowering herself into a chair in a series of crisp folds. "The stronger the better."

"Well?"

"Now I know how Canute felt. There's a high tide of opposition out there. We've got a battle on our hands, and no mistake."

"Did you see Snape?" Hermione wanted to know. If McGonagall had seen him, perhaps they'd allow her to visit too. She had her own tide of questions. The professor raised a silencing hand: this was one flow she could stem.

"I have seen Rufus Scrimgeour. An arrogant man, imprudent in many ways, but not wholly unreasonable."

From what Harry had said about the Minister of Magic, being reasonable was not one of his strongest suits. Had McGonagall been able to exert some influence over him? What leverage could she possibly have?

"Of course, I did have to point out that Molly's story will be front page news by tomorrow, and, as she is likely to be putting a very positive spin on the whole Snape situation, the Ministry will suffer if it is not seen to cooperate, or at least be sympathetic to her ordeal…"

_Was that all?_

"I have negotiated certain concessions – in the name of_ justice_, you understand. All interviews will be -"

"Interviews? They're going to _interrogate_ him?" cried Hermione, horrified, leaping to her feet, knocking against the coffee table in her agitation. The vase of lilies wobbled precariously.

"Sit down, Hermione. As I was saying, Auror interviews will be carried out in the presence of an independent Healer without the exercise of undue force. Veritaserum has been authorised."

"But-" Hermione was going to object again, but thought better of it. McGonagall knew as well as she did that Veritaserum could be subverted by a powerful wizard. And Snape was powerful - usually. And he was an Occlumens – she assumed they all knew that, too. Lupin had spoken of it as though it were common knowledge. Was the whole interview procedure a complete sham? Would they use it as an excuse to torture him?

McGonagall eyed the girl severely over the top of her glasses and then, with a slow, deliberate finger, pushed them back squarely on her nose.

"I would thank you, Miss Granger, to let me finish. Ahem. Tonks, as the arresting Auror, will be heading the investigation. Treatment and living conditions are to be as humane as possible, under the circumstances."

"Circumstances?" Hermione pounced on the word. The face of the headmistress arranged itself, crystallising into resolution.

"Azkaban." Fearing Death Eater reprisals, Scrimgeour was desperate to remove Snape from Ministry custody as soon as possible. He refused to expose the Department to further risk by detaining the accused there for any longer than was strictly necessary. Snape would be transferred to prison while awaiting trial. 'The swine might as well settle in, get used to it,' he had said to McGonagall. It was no surprise that Scrimgeour regarded the outcome of any investigation as a foregone conclusion. In fact, the only surprise was that he hadn't transferred Snape already.

"**No!** What do you mean, 'Azkaban'? You mean he's there, _now_? He can't be. He just _can't_…" Hermione's anguished exclamation betrayed more than anxiety. "Do you call this_ justice_? Isn't there anything we can do? He can't get away with that. What about a trial? I thought the whole point was to get Snape a fair trial. What's fair about sending him to Azkaban? Doesn't he get a chance to defend himself? Oh, this is a joke! This is Sirius, all over again!"

"Quiet, girl. If I might be allowed to speak? We're not dealing with another Barty Crouch here. Whatever else Minister Scrimgeour may be, he is politically astute. He's perfectly well aware that Snape's arrest is an extremely sensitive issue. He's not about to make any rash decisions. One foot wrong, and the repercussions could rebound on his entire career. For the time-being, at least, Snape's being held at the Ministry. But for how long, I really couldn't say. If Scrimgeour prevails, it may only be a matter of days."

Limp with relief, Hermione absorbed this information like a damp tissue. _Days? That didn't give them much time._

"You'll get your trial," McGonagall continued. "Or Severus will. But, frankly, it doesn't look good. You've already said that he admits to killing Albus. That's enough to get him a life sentence on its own. Be thankful we're not dealing with a Dementor's Kiss." The 'Kiss for a Curse' protestors would no doubt be vociferous, as soon as the story broke. "As for mitigation… We have to amass the evidence, mount a defence. These things take time."

"Compurgation!"(2) suggested Hermione, clutching at straws. It was a term she'd come across in the course of her research. She sat up straighter in her chair. "We could vouch for him. Dumbledore did it before."

"And how many people, other than the three of us in this room, have even the slightest interest in saving Severus Snape from his fate? Two? Three? That hardly constitutes a majority of popular opinion. Be patient. If the proof of innocence exists, I shall find it. If not, then Snape will be in the right place. As a short term measure. Don't look so tragic. He's tough. He has survived all these years without your help. If the worst comes to the worst, he'll survive a spell in Azkaban. It is no longer guarded by Dementors."

"But…" Logic dictated that, for the time being, prison was in all likelihood the best place for Snape: it was better policed than either the Ministry or Hogwarts. The Death Eaters would have no access to him there. Hermione knew she should regard this as a new beginning for him, not an end. But emotions were never logical…

McGonagall had had a most trying morning. She herself wasn't yet fully convinced of the former Potions master's innocence, but Hermione Granger was a sensible girl, not a besotted bimbo; Molly was not given to supporting undeserving causes; and Dumbledore had always, inexplicably, unwaveringly trusted Snape. She had to give them all credit and take them on trust. Only by vastly exaggerating the groundswell of popular support for Snape, and by the blatant lie that the 'Chosen One' ranked amongst the zealously converted, had she managed to extract any concessions from Scrimgeour whatsoever. To have her stalwart efforts so belittled was exasperating.

"The man is _alive_; the man is _safe_. What **more** do you want?" she snapped.

Hermione considered. What did she want? To reach for the stars? She wanted the impossible. And if she couldn't have that… She sighed. She wanted him _exonerated_, she wanted him to be_ free_, she wanted… She wanted him to be able to be _honest_… She wanted him to be _happy_… Or was that impossible too?

**End of chapter.**

**Yes, I can see that, as an ending, this would have left too many loose ends dangling. Which is why I have added the next chapter****: LAST WORDS. A final meeting between Snape and Hermione…**

1 Titania – Queen of the Fairies. A Midsummer Night's Dream.

2 Compurgation. Archaic (Muggle) legal practice in which a number of people swear to the innocence of the accused.


	18. Last Words

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST**

**By Bellegeste**

**Disclaimer****: The characters and locations belong to JKR and her publishers.**

**A/N****: So here we are, at the final chapter. This was written as I sat in a hospital café (very JK-esque!) waiting for my son to have treatment. Blame any inconsistencies on the vast amount of caffeine I consumed that day!**

**Thanks to all of you readers for being so loyal and especially those of you who have taken the trouble to review. Special thanks to Duj and Cecelle for their comments at first draft stage.**

**And, just in case you had forgotten… Shaken by the Dessicorpus spell to the extent that he compromised his cover before Voldie, Snape decided to cut his losses and run. He rescued Molly, returning her to her family, but was arrested and is now under custody in the Ministry**…

**Chapter 18:LAST WORDS**

"Arthur! Arthur, slow down, dear. Some of us aren't built for speed. I'm not a whippet."

The golden grilles of the lift had barely clanked shut behind them before Mr Weasley was off. Striding through the Ministry corridors projecting an air of purposeful preoccupation had become such a habit he no longer realised he was doing it. These days it was politic to look busy. Scrimgeour had no truck with slackers and at the moment would have grasped at any excuse to drop the name of Weasley from the payroll. Molly's rescue may have led to the coup of Snape's capture, but her subsequent campaign on his behalf was proving as irritating to the Ministry as a Billywig in the bed. It had taken Arthur several days of diplomatic manoeuvring to set up this visit.

He paused to let his wife catch up. Molly was peering about her with an expression of confusion and dismay as though she had lost something.

"What's the matter, dear – dropped your badge?"

No, in the patchy light of the flaming wall torches the silver badge still glinted on her lapel, the words 'Prison visitor' dimly legible. Arthur took her gently by the arm.

"Not getting cold feet, are you?" he asked solicitously. "It's not too late to call it off if you're having second thoughts, you know. No one will think any the worse."

"No, no dear, not at all. Never felt better. But… but, Arthur, this isn't Level Two," Molly muttered in a stage whisper. "I thought we'd be on Level Two, where your old office was, with the Aurors and the Department of Law Enforcement. But this is -"

"Level Nine." Arthur completed her sentence. "The holding cells are next to the old courtrooms, didn't you know? Not that they are designed for long-term occupation – no mod cons or creature comforts or anything. Wouldn't fancy it myself. The last time I came down here was when I had to bring Harry for his hearing. Rum do that was. And to think that now, Snape -" He interrupted himself and frowned at his wife. "I really don't see why you have to talk to the man at all – I'd have thought you'd seen enough of Death Eaters to last you a lifetime."

"Hush, Arthur. Not that again. I've told you. Whatever Snape is, whatever he's done, he saved me – and he didn't have to, you know - and I won't rest until I've thanked him. This may be the last chance I get. If Scrimgeour gets his way, Severus will be in Azkaban before the week's out."

It was something of a miracle he hadn't been shipped off to gaol already.

"Not if young Hermione has anything to do with it," Arthur chuckled. "When that girl takes it into her head to support a cause, she takes no prisoners. Um…" He caught Molly's wince at the ill-chosen metaphor and hurried on. "She's got a real bee in her bucket about this Snape case."

"Bonnet," his wife corrected automatically.

"What? Er, if you say so, dear. Never seen her so fired up for a cause. Not since she had that scheme to liberate house elves. I ask you! Remember how she pestered Ron to wear that peculiar badge? Or should I say 'badgered' him? I'm very surprised she hasn't been badgering us too – to get her in here. Not that they'd have granted her a visitor's pass. I had to pull all my strings for you, dear. But, you know, if even half of what she's saying about Snape is true, then the Ministry's in a real pickle."

"She's jolly lucky she's not on trial herself, silly girl. And Neville, too. And now poor Harry could be done for 'Misuse of Magic'. And as for those twins! I always knew that joke shop was a bad idea. What did they all think they were playing at?"

"Headless chickens." Arthur's response bordered on flippant. "The Department, that is. Running around like the proverbial… Scrimgeour's worried sick that the whole affair's going to blow up in his face and he'll be out on his ear, like Fudge. Playing his cards very close, he is. So, you watch yourself – you're not his favourite person at the moment either. What is it now, dear?"

For Molly's steps had slowed again. She'd needled him relentlessly about arranging this meeting, but now she was actually inside the bowels of the Ministry her sense of urgency had evaporated. Pink in the cheeks, her red hair awry, Molly had stopped to unfasten her cloak and was fanning herself with a Wizard Welfare leaflet she had picked up in the Atrium. Yet the temperature in this gloomy corridor, deep underground, was glacial. Perhaps it was her age; perhaps it was the stress of the last weeks taking its toll.

"All those questions!" she burst out. "Do I look like a terrorist? Me? A member of the Militant S.S.S.!" (_Save Severus Snape_).

Arthur tactfully refrained from pointing out that, as a long-term member of the Order, she would be ideally qualified.

"He's Top Security. It's only to be expected. They can't let just anybody in."

"_Anybody_? Is the wife of one of their most trusted, long-serving employees just _anybody_?" Molly shrilled. She appreciated, though, that it was this status, more than anything, which had gained her clearance through the stringent security cordon which controlled all access to wizardry's second most wanted man. "Polyjuice tests," she muttered in disgust. "As if I'd be stupid enough to try to smuggle someone in like that. And I'm sure that tea tasted funny – if they wanted me to take a truth potion all they had to do was ask. _'Am I carrying on my person any means whereby the prisoner might effect an escape?'_ As if I'd have a secret wand stashed in my underwear. I'm surprised they didn't go the whole hog and strip search me. What is the world coming to? I feel naked enough as it is, without my wand," she ended on a note of helplessness.

There had never been any question of taking a wand with her into the holding cell; she'd known all along that she would be required to surrender it before proceeding – but knowing something and experiencing it were two different things. Molly clutched her husband's elbow.

"Oh, Arthur." _What am I doing?_

"You'll be fine, Mollywobbles," he whispered fondly into the wispy curls about her ear. I'll be right outside. But do be _careful_, won't you, dear…"

Molly, her sense of self-preservation honed by her recent ordeal, answered with impatience.

"I wish you'd say what you mean, Arthur. It's all right – I won't do anything to _embarrass_ you. I'm not an idiot. I assume they – someone – will be listening in to every word I utter." If their own children could set up covert surveillance devices to tune in to private conversations, it should not be beyond the scope of the Ministry.

"Probably watching you too," Arthur agreed. "They're desperate to discredit you. If I were you, I'd…"

But Molly had spied a familiar triangular witch-shaped sign and was heading for the ladies' cloakroom.

"Just powdering my nose," she called. "Back in a jiffy."

**XXX**

"Gracious, Hermione! Did you have to stand so close? I thought I was going to trip over your feet. And talk about hot! I thought I would melt in that lift, with you pressed up against me."

The two women were squeezed into the furthermost cubicle, the door firmly fastened. Harry's Invisibility Cloak hung on the back of the door. Lending it to her was the nearest he had come, as yet, to a personal apology.

"Sorry." Hermione was already stripping off her blouse. Like quick-change artists, she and Molly began to swap clothes. "But it worked, didn't it? They couldn't tell that I'd come into the room with you. They only detected one magical presence. If we'd come in separately, who knows? I know what you mean about the wand, though."

From the point of view of detection, Hermione had considered it safer not to bring her wand into the building. Rumours were rife about the draconian new security measures within the Ministry, but no amount of subtle quizzing could elicit anything more than a knowing roll of the eyes from either Arthur or Tonks. Without a wand, however, Hermione felt anything but safe. Apprehensive, yet at the same time more grateful than she could say, she half-smiled at Molly, her unexpectedly adventurous ally.

"We did it!"

"Don't count your chickens, dear. It's not over yet. We've got to get out again afterwards."

"They won't be testing you on the way out, unless they scan for Polyjuice to see if you're Snape in disguise. Which you won't be, more's the pity. Oh, sorry, but you know what I mean." Even the brains of the brightest witch of her age, racked to the point of distraction, had not yet come up with a foolproof way of smuggling Snape past the guards. The cloak wasn't big enough to hide them both. "You could see how disappointed they were when the first tests were negative. You were fantastic – all that fuss about the Polyjuice and Veritaserum! It never occurred to them to check for Invisibility. Good job I wasn't a Death Eater. Is that their idea of Top Security? I told you they wouldn't be lateral thinkers."

Sneaking in in Molly's wake had been a calculated risk – if they were caught Molly was to deny all knowledge of Hermione's presence – but Hermione's conversations with Snape had taught her a lot about risk, and about the subtlety of the double bluff.

"I still think I should be going in there with you. Ooof." Molly was struggling into Hermione's baggiest sweatshirt, her head popping through the neck hole like a flushed and sweaty jack-in-the-box. "I really don't know how you talked me into this. If Arthur ever finds out… And as for Ronald - what on earth would he say? Fine mother I've turned out to be!"

They had been through this, many times. There was no rationalising the sense of obligation which – for different reasons - she felt towards both Snape and Hermione. In separate ways, she felt responsible for them both. But she wasn't Hermione's mother. Ultimately she had no authority over the headstrong, determined young witch. Yet she had been infected by the girl's desperate sincerity. If she, Molly, hadn't helped her now, Hermione would have worked out another, perhaps more dangerous, way of seeing Snape. Besides, Molly could remember how it had felt when she first met Arthur – how obstacles had become irrelevancies. Even eloping had been an adventure. Now, all those weeks working with the were-children, not knowing if she would live to see her family again, had affected her judgement, left her emotionally exploitable – they both knew that. Maybe she was even a little bit crazy herself. A few months ago she would never have contemplated raiding the twins' secret stores to help Hermione Granger break the law.

"I suppose you want a hair now. Here… Careful, don't spill it."

"I'm not going to spill it!"

Hermione's hands were unsteady as she poked the strand into the container of _Wizard Wheezes'_ sludge she had produced from her pocket. So the girl had nerves after all – Molly had been beginning to wonder.

With a shudder, her eyes clenched, Hermione forced herself to swallow. Moments later Molly was staring at a facsimile of herself.

"If Arthur tries to give you any last minute advice, just nod and disagree – he's used to that. And remember everything I told you about the were-children: it was Suzie who would keep on sicking up the Wolfsbane, and Jon-Jon who bruised his toe when he -"

"Yes. **I know**. Don't worry, I'm word perfect. Snape'll think I'm their auntie or something. He'll never guess."

Molly was shaking her head as she lifted Harry's cloak from the hook and slipped it round her own shoulders. Invisible, she would spend the next hour in the cloakroom waiting for Hermione to return.

"So you're still not going to tell him?" She disapproved.

"How can I? You heard Mr Weasley say that all the Ministry will be spying on our every move. And anyway, why would Snape want to see me? I don't mind if he doesn't recognise me, as long as I can see for myself that he's all right. I just _have to_ see him."

**XXX**

Head in hands, Snape was slumped over the small wooden table. He looked up as she entered the cell but did not return her smile and made no move to rise. Standing, Hermione reasoned, would only draw attention to the shackles. Or was he too weak to get up? He would hate to be seen like this, dishevelled, unshaven, unwashed.

There were no torches in here. A small enchanted window high up in the rough stone wall admitted a scrape of light. Hermione would have bet that that was where the Aurors were watching from; she felt like giving them a wave. A second chair had been dragged into the room for her use. The only other furniture – if you could call it that – was a low, pew-like slatted shelf which spanned the back wall of the cell, scarcely long enough for Snape to lie down full length. Was this where he was living? This was bad enough. And yet Azkaban was said to be immeasurably worse. How bad could it be?

"S-s…" she gulped as his name dried in her throat. Seeing him in the flesh, standing so close to him, and yet being so completely powerless to help him, unable even to identify herself, was much, _much_ more difficult than she had anticipated. Hermione tried again. Coming from her lips, Molly's voice sounded strange to her ears – fuller, richer, _older_ than her own. Over the past few days she had spent several hours chatting to Mrs Weasley, memorising her vocal intonation and inflection. Now it was time to put her observations into practice.

"S-Snape." At last she managed the name. _Come on, Hermione. Get a grip. You'll give the game away. Mrs W wouldn't stand here stammering at him like a schoolgirl._

"Molly." He responded coolly, taciturn, guarded, looking for the catch. Hearing him speak – just a single word – notched up the tempo in Hermione's chest; she was sure he must be able to hear her heart thumping. Snatching a couple of nervous breaths, she gathered herself for the performance of her life.

"Severus Snape, you are not an easy man to visit. My Arthur's had the dickens of a job hacking through red tape you simply wouldn't believe…"

Hermione bustled forward and plonked herself on the visitor's chair, sitting down abruptly with a grunt – she wasn't used to having such short legs and the speed at which her backside met the seat took her by surprise. Anxiously she scanned his face for any signs of recognition, regretting the dark four-day growth that obscured his features and softened the lines of exhaustion. As he sat there, unmoving, it was impossible to tell if he was hurt or merely tired and despondent. If Tonks had been supervising the interrogations, she wouldn't have allowed her colleagues to cross the line; he might have been roughed-up a little, but not brutalised. Hollow-eyed, Snape returned her gaze, impassive, suspicious, neither pleased to see her nor wholly indifferent.

"Well then, how are you Snape? Bearing up? Goodness me, it's chilly in here." Hermione chafed her freezing hands together, realising as she did so that perhaps Molly's obsession with woolly mittens and scarves was a reflection on her poor circulation. Snape's hands, pale and bloodless, rested on the table. However acclimatised he might be to the temperatures in the Hogwarts dungeons, it couldn't be good for him to be living like this. "I should have brought you a jumper. I've got one at home that would fit you. Never been worn. I knitted it for Percy last Christmas, but he sent it back unopened. Anyway, enough of my problems. I feel dreadful, though, that I haven't anything to give you…"

"Like what – grapes? It's not a hospital," Snape said, a rasp in his voice snagging the trademark silkiness.

"Yes, but… something to help pass the time. It can't be much fun in here. Let me see if I've got…" Hermione rummaged in Molly's Tardis of a bag which, thanks to the security's strict censorship, was now almost empty. It gave her an excuse to look away, to work out what to say next. "Ah, here it is." She pulled out a well-thumbed copy of _Witch Weekly_ that the guard had deemed too contemptible to confiscate. Snape glared at it.

"Are you suggesting I take up _knitting_?" he asked with icy disdain.

"The stories are quite good, and there's a crossword." Which would take him all of two minutes to complete. Hermione, trying not to smile at his indignation, defended Mrs Weasley's choice of reading matter. "Keep it anyway. It's not as if you've much else to do. In Muggle gaols they run educational classes for the prisoners - or so I've been told." Damn! Would Molly know that? Hermione had sworn to avoid Muggle references, but they would keep creeping in.

"Indeed. I'll sign up for Occupational Alchemy and Conversational Elvish, shall I?" he retorted. Hermione pretended to take offence.

"No need for that, Snape. I've come here out of the goodness of my heart, and that's all the thanks I get."

She watched his face set into a scowl. Right then she would have given anything to be back in her kitchen, sharing a pot of tea and discussing her research into Flamel and the Italians. It all seemed so long ago. And there always seemed to be a table separating them. With an effort, she switched back into Molly-speak.

"You're looking peaky, you know. Aren't they feeding you? I did make you some sandwiches, but that officious watch-wizard at the desk wouldn't let me bring them in. Those ghastly security people, they're getting totally above themselves… I'll have a word with one of the guards and see if there's anything to be done about your food – got to keep your strength up for the trial." Mrs Weasley believed that one could solve the problems of the universe with a good, hot meal.

"Trial?" At last Snape registered interest.

"No date has been set, as yet. But there'll be a trial, you mark my words. The Ministry's accountable to the public – theoretically, anyhow - and people are baying for justice. And, well, you're still here, aren't you – that must be a good sign. Wheels are in motion. I know for a fact that Minerva has called an Extraordinary General Meeting of all staff and governors at Hogwarts, and Herm… Hermione Granger -" She hesitated to say her name out loud, fearing to betray herself with some inadvertent change of tone. "Hermione Granger has been rallying public support. Persuasive speaker, that girl. It's all over the papers, of course. You know my son, Ron?"

A sour nod indicated 'yes'.

"Ron's friend, Neville - Neville Longbottom - seems to have caused something of a sensation too. Claiming he was destined to deliver to you – and you alone – a magical talisman. Fabulous story! There's a snippet about it on page, um…" She motioned towards the discarded magazine. "You'll find it in the index. Anyway, this talisman is supposed to enable you to protect Harry, er, the Chosen One. _The Quibbler_ is devoting a special issue to it – the mythical history of the Boro-? Boromir? – what do they call it? - the _Borometz_ creature, and the implications this has in the current crisis. The loony left is lapping it up, as you can imagine and, well, we need all the support we can get."

Hermione paused for breath and to gauge Snape's reaction. She hadn't revealed to him anything that the Ministry didn't already know. But there were so many things she wanted to tell him, which would have to remain unsaid. He would have to assume that, simultaneously, the Order was holding its own emergency meetings, that Minerva's efforts extended far beyond chairing the school's staff disciplinary committee, that the resourceful Miss Granger would be scouring Hansard(1) for legal loopholes.

"So, I have become a _cause c__élè__bre_," Snape sneered, unimpressed. "For all the good it'll do. Or should I be flattered? That rehashing my life history is earning some semi-literate hack his Christmas bonus? I'm surprised to see you here – don't you have some press junket you'd rather be at?"

Hermione was shocked at the raw bitterness in his voice. Her eyes raked round the walls of the cell, wishing she could block off the hidden spy holes, cursing the absence of her wand, which would have let her cast a Muffliato. Every instinct was screaming at her to lean across the table and take his hand and tell him that she was doing everything, _everything_ possible to get him out of this dreadful place.

"Don't you take that supercilious tone with me, Severus Snape."

Hermione adopted Molly's Howler voice, hating herself for it as Snape visibly recoiled. She didn't want to be snapping at him; she wanted to comfort him. How many harsh interrogations had he endured since his capture? Torture _per se_ might be prohibited at the Ministry, but where did the Auror bully boys draw the line?

"Nymphadora may have acted rather precipitately when you brought me home. I'd admit that was unfortunate. But what do you expect, turning up like that in the middle of the night? I'll have you know that I came here to thank you, though for the life of me I don't know why I bothered. You risked your life to rescue me, and I won't forget it. It was -" Here Hermione addressed the faceless, eavesdropping walls, speaking extra clearly and with crusading emphasis. "It was a selfless, noble, courageous act, not the work of a cowardly Death Eater traitor but of a man of loyalty and great personal integrity and for which I am supremely grateful. And Arthur and the kids send their thanks too."

Elbows on the table, knuckles pressed to his lips, Snape listened in silence, wrestling with the novelty of praise and recognition. A full minute passed and still he didn't move. Hermione tried out a few Molly-ish phrases of encouragement under her breath, but she found them jarring and inappropriate. He was in no mood to be jollied into a more positive frame of mind. _What would Molly do now?_ She was seriously considering whether or not she might get away with _patting_ his hand in a motherly gesture, when he raised his head and looked her straight in the eye. For a second, Hermione panicked. _Could he perform a non-verbal Legilimens without her realising? If he recognised her now, would he have the presence of mind to play along? Would he suspect a trap? Would he even care if she got caught?_ His expression was calculating, curious. At last, he spoke.

"A pretty speech, Molly. But no amount of _gratitude_ will commute a death sentence."

"Which hasn't yet been passed. Don't you tell me you're giving up already. What kind of a message is that sending to your supporters? There are people out there campaigning on your behalf – how about_ you_ showing _them_ a little gratitude for a change? Why, even young Harry -"

"Potter?" Snape bristled. If anything was guaranteed to incite the man and rouse his fighting spirit, it was the mention of Harry.

"I won't have you bad-mouthing that boy, Snape. He's given an interview to the _Prophet_. He's said that he may have been mistaken… That your actions on the Tower last June may be open to more than one interpretation…"

The case for the prosecution would rest on Harry's damning eyewitness account. If that could, in some way, be thrown into question… A Muggle court might interpret that as 'reasonable doubt' and call for an acquittal. There was no knowing what the Wizengamot would do. Hermione didn't trust them to be fair or just or even especially honest. Under wizard law the distinction between murder and manslaughter seemed to be regarded as a mere formality. Her most promising idea so far was simply to prevent Harry from turning up to give evidence. Without his testimony, who could prove that Snape had been instrumental in Dumbledore's death? Malfoy? The Death Eaters? Who was to say that Dumbledore, weakened by the poison – or by age and infirmity, if the poison theory was contested – had not stumbled and toppled to his death? Who but Harry could say whether it was Snape or another Death Eater who had fired the fatal Avada Kedavra? Or, if wand evidence was cited, who could prove that Snape himself had been using that wand? If she could somehow persuade Harry to disappear or, better still, fake his own death, then the case would have to be dismissed. It might not exonerate Snape, but it would throw a spanner in the works. Though, she reflected, then the wizard world would be plunged into despair at the loss of their predestined 'saviour', and there was no knowing how Voldemort would react. In any case, would Harry cooperate; would he be prepared to go to such lengths for Snape's sake? Perhaps she would be better off Petrifying him and hiding him in her loft.

The news of Harry's possible change of heart was greeted by Snape with total scepticism.

"Contrite now, is he? Pity he didn't stop to listen for five minutes, instead of mindlessly firing off lethal spells."

The memory of the Dessicorpus was still painfully fresh in Snape's mind. That appeared to gall him more than Harry's original version of events on the Tower, which, Hermione thought, he had always accepted with a sense of fatalistic inevitability. For all she knew he might still be suffering from the spell's after-effects; there was a craggy texture to his breathing that wasn't quite, well, _normal_ for Snape. One way or another, the scars would remain with him; forgiveness was a long way off.

"Yes, well, I've spoken to the lad about that, and I don't think he'll be doing it again in a hurry." Unaccustomed to her matronly figure, Hermione folded her arms rather awkwardly across her bust, and endeavoured to look stern and authoritative. She had, in fact, overheard Molly giving Harry a dressing-down of a shrillness and severity usually reserved for the twins. He had emerged chastened but strangely satisfied, as though the telling-off were proof that he was at last a _bona fide_ member of the Weasley family.

The largely one-sided conversation was flagging. Snape and Molly Weasley were hardly cut out to be best buddies. Hermione leaned forward.

"And what of the children? Poor Suzie and Jon-Jon and… and all of the little darlings." The list of names she had so meticulously memorised had disappeared from her head. She had promised the real Molly that she would at least ask.

"What of them?"

"That's what **I** want to know." She sighed. He could be exasperating at times. "Arthur's people ransacked the address you gave, but there was no sign. Nothing."

"Then it's out of my hands. What do you expect me to do? I suggest you set Lupin and his sniffer-dogs onto it. But don't get your hopes up. Those kids were a liability all along. I've already told _them_," his eyes flicked up towards the window, "they should be dredging lakes, checking the local landfill sites…"

His ruthless unconcern was convincing. If Hermione hadn't known better, if she hadn't witnessed his distress, she would have believed him indifferent to the fate of the were-children. Only now was she beginning to appreciate the extent to which he had taken her into his confidence.

"Collateral damage, Molly. This is a war, not a squabble over who gets the blackcurrant Every Flavour Bean."

Hermione was shocked, not at what he had said - she had never thought the children stood much of a chance - but by the proficiency with which he lied. McGonagall was right: he was a consummate liar. 'Molly' adopted a suitably horrified expression.

"I can't bear to think about it," she declared.

"Suit yourself." Snape had crossed his arms, ostensibly for warmth, but Hermione could see the fingers tensing around his biceps. Cold and tired, he looked as though he needed to lie down, that he was waiting for her to leave him in peace.

"One more thing, Snape. On that night when we escaped, why was it all such a rush? Did something happen between you and You-Know-Who?"

"I've told them all this," he snarled. "What's this – another debriefing? How many more times? I got you out, didn't I?"

Hermione had already worked out what must have happened; she didn't know why it was so important to hear Snape say it himself. Un-Molly-like, she gazed at him, eyes pleading.

"Very well. Though I fail to see what relevance it has to your current situation. You are aware of Potter's contribution to the events of that evening?"

As he spoke, the underlying wheeze in his chest was becoming more pronounced. He coughed, turning his face into his shoulder.

"It seems that my skills were somewhat _compromised_. When the Dark Lord questioned me as to my whereabouts that night, he sensed my, ah, _dissimulation_."

"He penetrated your thoughts?"

"Luckily, no. Would I be alive today, if he had? But he saw enough to arouse suspicion. I made my excuses, but I could tell it was over. The moment I had been waiting for all these years. I knew he'd be back to double-check. And that I would be incapable of… …that I'd be too feeble to…" Snape stopped speaking, his jaw clenched.

"But you've seen a Healer since then, haven't you, S- ?" Hermione clamped her lips together as a shot of adrenalin shocked her into silence. She had almost called him 'Sir'. Snape dismissed her concern with a snort and a shrug. He had no intention of discussing his health with the likes of Molly Weasley.

"Let us get one thing straight," he said. "My abetting your escape last week puts you under no obligation. There is no question of _another_ life debt." Hermione was about to protest, as Molly surely would have done, when Snape again fixed her with that unfathomable stare. "I do not expect you to take any more _unnecessary risks_ on my behalf."

What did he mean? Momentarily cowed out of her role-play, Hermione was at a loss for words. She wished she might fling off her disguise and declare herself openly. There was no obvious way for Molly to prolong the conversation. She had said what she had supposedly come to say. Reluctantly she stood up to leave.

"Well now, mustn't outstay my welcome. Better get back to the madhouse. No rest for the wicked. A mother's work is never done." Hermione couldn't concentrate and her Molly persona was crumbling into clichés. All she could think about was that in a few seconds she would be walking out of that door and might never see him again. Despite all her precautions, all her protestations to the contrary, a part of her longed for a sign – a look, a nod, a smile, a wink, _anything_ – to show that he recognised her; that he knew he was not alone.

"Don't let me detain you." Too proud to express any regret at her departure, he stood unsteadily, as if to usher her out. Hermione was unprepared for the tidal wave of affection that swept away her inhibition. Arms open wide, she took a step towards him.

"Oh, come here, Snape. You're not that much older than my Bill. Even you aren't too old and mean for a hug. You look after yourself, do you hear?"

Hermione's arms were round him now, drawing him close but careful not to squeeze too hard. She assumed that his torso, where the marks wouldn't show, would be a mass of bruises. Aurors were sneaky like that. Her palms traced the contours of his back, feeling the bony ridges of ribcage and spine even through the layers of his shirt and jacket. He was worryingly thin. Clinging on to a fraction, a fragment of a fantasy, Hermione closed her eyes and wished them both far away, in another time and place, in another life, in another body, in an embrace that was anything but maternal.

Taken aback, Snape resisted, dignified to the last, unyielding in the sentimental clasp of the short, plump, middle-aged mother of seven. The spectators would be having a good laugh at his expense. Then, for the briefest of moments – and it might only have been a shift of weight from one leg to the other, a slight sway in his balance – Hermione sensed him relax against her. His sigh was a valve, venting weeks of scrupulous self-restraint.

"Go quickly," he murmured, his head dropping to her shoulder. "You can't have much time left."

"Time? You guessed? When? How soon?" She should have known better than to think mere Polyjuice could fool Snape.

"Your eyes can't lie," he whispered. "Only you… You're the only one who… Oh, this is madness!" Abruptly, he disengaged himself. "I appreciate your taking the trouble to visit me, Molly. Give my regards to your family." Formality can conceal many forms of embarrassment.

Hermione was mopping her eyes on an embroidered cotton handkerchief she had found in the pocket of Mrs Weasley's skirt. The tears would come, like it or not – there was no use trying to hide them.

"Don't mind me, Snape, I'm terrible at goodbyes," she sniffed. "You should ask Arthur what I'm like every time I wave those kids of mine off on the Hogwarts Express. Now, don't you go thinking that just because you're locked up in here that we've forgotten all about you. There are plenty of people on the outside who -" Hermione's voice cracked and she sniffed again, trying to smile at him through her tears, "- who _care_ about you. Is that clear?"

He couldn't reply.

Hermione moved to the door and gave two knocks, the prearranged signal for Arthur to unbolt and unlock it. On the threshold, she turned back for one last look.

"Oh, by the way, Snape," she said. "I have a message for you. Hermione Granger sends her love."

**End of story.**

**Aah, that's it folks! There's hope for him yet…**

**For those of you who may, quite rightly, point out that I have left a few loose ends, I have written an Epilogue. Those of you who think I should write a sequel, please consider this Epilogue as a short sequel! Those of you who say I should write a happy ending, please read the Epilogue…**

1 Hansard –edited verbatim report of political proceedings in Westminster.


	19. EPILOGUE Initiative

**New Perspective 2**

**TAKEN ON TRUST **

**By Bellegeste**

**A/N****: With **_**Deathly Hallows**_** looming, I feel that the Potterverse, as I know and love it, is about to go decidedly pear-shaped. Rather than leave the ending of **_**Taken on Trust**_** open for a sequel, I have decided to wrap up this story once and for all.**

**It was never my intention to write a Last Battle fic. I have set this epilogue two years after the previous chapter, in a conveniently post-Voldemort world and have merely sketched in several other threads, most notably Harry and the Horcruxes, in order to concentrate on the main theme: Hermione and Snape.**

**In the last chapter, Snape was arrested. That was in September 1997; it is now early October 1999. The students have completed their final year at Hogwarts and have been working in the wizarding world for 15 months.**

**Epilogue : INITIATIVE**

Like a washed-up wreck, the ruins of All Saints' Parish Church, Pontefract, lie on a triangular island of green on the eastern outskirts of the town. On three sides, a sea of tarmac laps at its grassy shores: the A645 South Baileygate; North Baileygate the route back into the town centre; and, forming the hypotenuse, the access road for the recently constructed estate of redbrick townhouses. Lashed by centuries of unforgiving Yorkshire wind and rain, the crumbling medieval church walls offer no angles to the weather; the sandstone blocks are worn smooth, rounded as bone; a blackened, beached carcass. Constructed within the original shell, the 'new' Victorian clock tower thrusts skywards, boxy and sharply defined, as though the conning tower of a giant submarine had surfaced directly beneath the broken ancient hull and pushed itself through and up amidst the hallowed stones.

The hands on the clock were approaching two-thirty as a sturdy figure in a shapeless, bottle-green duffle coat entered the churchyard by the southern gate. After taking a moment to take stock of his surroundings, he ambled towards the only other castaway on this deserted island. This was a young woman, walking slowly, hands plunged deep into the pockets of her padded jacket, her back to the gusting wind, which snatched rudely at her hair, buffeting wild brown curls across her solemn face.

"I thought I might find you here." Neville Longbottom fell into step at Hermione's side. "When I Flooed your office and they said you'd taken the afternoon off…"

"You Flooed me at work?" No words of greeting.

"Just to say hello. What with today being – well, you know."

"You can say it, Neville. I won't fall to pieces. '…today being the anniversary of his death.' I've got to get used to the idea sooner or later."

This was said with such a total lack of conviction that, perversely, Neville was cheered. Hermione was barely making an attempt to deceive him any more, and he took this as an encouraging sign. For two years the subject of Snape's death in custody had been emotional quicksand to her. One false move and it would drag her under.

Her footsteps didn't falter, but she was staring blindly into the distance with the fixed determination of someone trying not to give way to tears. Already she had cried enough for one day. After a few silent yards she linked her arm through Neville's. Together they paced the length of the paved path as far as the eastern apex of the triangle, turning sharply as it angled back along the other side of the building.

"You're the only one, Neville, who even remembers," she said quietly. "To the others it's just history. All that drama over Harry and Voldemort! Who gave a toss about Severus? People just shut their eyes to it, blotted it out. I think they want to forget him, to forget it ever happened… The way it was all hushed up, you'd think he'd never existed."

Neville's face still tightened at her use of the forbidden name. Even when the name no longer constituted a threat. Voldemort would not be returning. Harry had seen to that. But some memories were too painful to share in public.

"Happen they're right," he said. _Spilt milk; water under the bridge._ "Getting angry's not going to bring them all back. And folks have their own ways of remembering."

"They remember Harry," she muttered. She had tried to be magnanimous, to celebrate Harry's triumph, to honour his memory, but true forgiveness eluded her. If it hadn't been for Harry, Snape might still be alive.

"Aye, and so they should." Neville stuck up for his friend. He hadn't been there the night Harry cast the Dessicorpus; he hadn't witnessed Snape's agony; he hadn't seen Harry's face contorted with the intent to kill. In Neville's eyes, Harry's heroic image remained unsullied. "Give him his due, Hermione. He saved us all. He fulfilled the Prophecy, and he paid the price. He really was the Chosen One."

"He was lucky." A part of Hermione begrudged Harry his success. It rankled, though she could never complain of the end result. How had he tracked down the remaining Horcruxes without her help? She'd never rated him as particularly bright – brave, yes, plucky, adventurous, but not_ clever_ – so how had he managed to discover the secret locations? It had to be luck. Either that or he had a hidden vat of Felix Felicis stashed away somewhere. Maybe he had enlisted Slughorn's assistance, promising a share in the spoils of fame. But, somehow, he had located the Locket, the Wand and the Cup. And what Nagini had been doing in Hogwarts' lake with the giant squid was anybody's guess. A fatal mistake.

"But no one cares! He died, and as far as they're concerned it was 'good riddance'. All very convenient…" It was clear from her aggrieved tone that Hermione was no longer talking about Harry. She mourned him too, but not in the same way.

Neville guided her to the bench by the church's main entrance, the wooden doors locked and bolted at this hour on a Thursday afternoon. Around them the ruins of the earlier nave, now open to the elements - its gothic arches had framed neither timber nor glass for four hundred years - gave an illusion of shelter from the plucking wind.

Hermione's listless gaze took in the devastated stonework, the remnants of carved tracery.

"Must have been beautiful once," she sighed. "It dates from the 13th century, you know, but it was sacked in 1645 during the Civil War. The tower and transept were restored in 1831. It's noted for its double helix staircase."

Neville stared at her in awe.

"Goodness, Hermione. What you don't know wouldn't fill a pea pod."

Her fragile smile came and went.

"Thanks, Neville, but there's a historical plaque above the door." She nodded upwards and the young man's eyes humbly followed her lead. He quickly fell into old patterns of behaviour. "Though I have done some research too. And I still don't understand it. Why here? There must be dozens – hundreds – of graveyards in the country. What's so different about this one? Why, in the name of all that's holy, would Snape ever have wanted to be buried _here_? He wasn't even a Christian – at least, I don't think he was. I don't even know that for sure. Why would he be? I don't really know _anything_ about him. Except that I miss him. After all this time, I still miss him."

Bear-like, Neville put a brotherly arm around her shoulders. Hermione leaned into the scratchy duffle, which smelled reassuringly of earth and thyme with a faint undertone of stale sandwiches and Stinksap. Neville understood. There were things she could say to Neville that she wouldn't have dreamed of confessing to anybody else – not to her parents or Molly Weasley or even Ginny.

"It's not as though anything ever really happened," she murmured to a bottle-green toggle. "But there was something – some sort of connection… I'd never met anyone like him."

"I know," Neville agreed. "We spent all those years thinking he was descended from a dragon and he was going to skin us and eat us alive, when really he was just doing his job. And underneath it all, he was a decent human being."

"Sometimes. When he wanted to be." Hermione qualified Neville's rosy picture of their detested schoolmaster. A man doesn't have to be a saint to be loved. "Oh, Neville, I can't believe he's gone. If they'd sent him to Azkaban there might still have been a chance… I can't help thinking that if I hadn't built it into such a big issue, he might still be alive."

"Or he might still have died," countered Neville stolidly. "If he were so poorly, like. Prison wouldn't have made him any better."

"But he wasn't! When I saw him he wasn't ill. Well, he was, but not ill enough to die. All those details the Ministry released to the _Prophet_ about him being on hunger-strike since his arrest and 'injuries sustained prior to his detention' – that's all rubbish. They made it up; they must have. I swear to you, there was something funny going on. They must have tortured him. Or simply wanted to get him out of the way. I said so at the time and no one believed me."

Neville recognised the opening phrases of Hermione's militant protest. They had had this conversation several times over the past two years. She blamed herself for not noticing, during that snatched Polyjuice visit to Snape's cell, how his health was failing.

"But," he said gently, "that spell of Harry's – Snape told you himself there was no antidote. It was a miracle he survived at all, even for a short time. Happen he got worse, sudden like. You don't know what damage it may have done, you know, _internally_. You did all you could."

"And it wasn't enough." Hermione stood up, sloughing Neville's comforting arm. She marched out towards the path, ducking her head as she passed through the old gateway, though the massive stone lintel cleared her hair by a good six inches. Its squat proportions made it seem lower than it actually was.

"Look at it," she cried, waving a dismissive hand at where the gravestones had been neatly repositioned along the perimeter walls like sponge fingers lining a trifle dish. "No one's been buried in this churchyard since the 1840's. I've checked," she added dangerously as Neville looked dubious. "So where is he? There's no stone, no plaque, nothing to mark his grave. No records in the church register. He must have been buried in secret; either that or the gravediggers have been Obliviated. Or someone's lying."

"I half expected him to be under a tree," said Neville, looking around as though a fully grown Yew tree might at any moment sprout underfoot. Apart from the grass there was not a scrap of greenery on the 'island'. A bed of rose bushes had been autumn-pruned back to spiked stumps. "But there isn't one."

"I don't follow." Hermione frowned. "What tree? This had better not be some sick botanical joke, Neville."

"No, I'm not being funny. His last words were, 'You're barking up the wrong tree', right? So, where's the tree?" Neville could be very literal minded at times.

"Last words? Who said they were? How do you know? Why hasn't anybody told me this?" Hermione swept round to confront Neville, her eyes flashing. Any information, however trivial, appertaining to Snape's death, might be important. Another fantasy imploded: Snape expiring with her name on his lips.

"Sorry, I thought everybody knew." Neville wouldn't have kept it from her on purpose. "It was going round the staff-room. I think perhaps McGonagall got it from Tonks, and she heard it from one of the Aurors who was there at the… at the end. You'd have thought Snape'd come out with something more… more clever."

"Epigrammatic? Neville, he was dying! He was probably delirious." It broke her heart to think of him suffering, alone and abandoned, in that dismal ministry cell.

"Well, if it were me dying and I knew somebody like you loved me, I'd have tried to leave you a message," declared Neville. "Not that that's ever going to happen. I mean, I know as how I'll die someday, but…" He wasn't pining for Hermione; he'd phlegmatically accepted that he would never be in her league; he'd known it ever since the first year when he'd been grateful if the trio would simply let him tag along.

"Do you really think so?" Hermione softened momentarily at the thought. The idea of receiving a message from Severus, from beyond the grave, was painfully appealing. Misting, her gaze drifted again to the distance, resting loosely on the mounds and slopes of what was left of old Pontefract Castle. Its blunted curtain walls flanked the path leading back into town. She saw, not the earthworks of a motte and bailey, but her kitchen, long ago: Snape was approaching her; she had her back to him. 'Hermione, I…' _What might he have said, if Harry hadn't come bursting in at precisely the wrong moment?_ She shivered inside her jacket and blinked away the 'what if's. It was too late now. "Wrong tree? No. If it is a clue, it's too cryptic for me. It could mean anything. I know you're trying to be positive, Neville, but to me it sounds more like the Aurors were trying to make him confess to something and he was refusing to cooperate. That'd be more like him. And it would explain how he… why he… I'd much rather have it your way, but…"

Her eyes slid back to the serried tombstones. Decades of moss and lichen obscured the engraved names. It had taken her more than one visit to the graveyard to decipher them. The need to know was bordering on obsession. She was loath to admit to Neville just how many times over the past two years she had Apparated to Pontefract to try to find answers to the nagging puzzle. And to be near Snape – wherever he was.

"Oh God, it's so frustrating!" she exclaimed out loud and then, remembering where she was, mouthed an abashed 'sorry' to the heavens. "I don't get it. What earthly connection can he have had with this place?"

"Family? Parents? Grandparents?" Neville rightly assumed Hermione would have investigated these possibilities. The wind-tangled brown mane shook despondently.

"Nothing doing. Not a single Snape or Prince there," – a nod towards the tombstones – "or on there." Her head tilted the other way, towards the war memorial, a tall stone pillar topped by a Celtic cross. It stood in the comparative shelter of the outer walls, in the right-angle formed by the junction of nave and transept. Four bedraggled Armistice Day wreaths leaned askew on the steps of the plinth, their soggy petals bleeding into the stonework. It would be another month before their replacements took up their posts, reverently, to silent salutes. Low afternoon sunlight burnished the names of the fallen. On the wall behind, the shadow of the monument, with its slim stem and rounded top, formed its own timeless, weather-resistant poppy.

Neville wandered over to take a look.

"I see what you mean." In a reverent tone he began to read out the listed 'S's: "Scarth, Shay, Slater, Strangward," and then the 'P's: "Parker, Pettit," and then, as if mesmerised by the litany, went back to the beginning, starting with the 'A's: "Ainscough, Anstell, Arnot… Baker, Barkin, Birkby, Butterfield… Chadderton, Chapman…"

"Neville!" Hermione was getting too cold to stand and wait until he had recited the entire alphabet.

"Sorry." He was blushing, or maybe it was the chill of the wind pinking his cheeks. "Do all Muggles do this? List all the names? It's rather ghoulish, isn't it, but effective."

" 'Lest we forget'," murmured Hermione, thinking about Severus.

"We could do it too," said Neville. "Set up a memorial to all the wizards who gave their lives in the war against You-Know-Who. All his victims, and the people who died fighting him. Harry and Dumbledore and Sirius, and the Prewetts and Ollivander and Cedric and Hannah's mum - all of them. And Snape. You could remember him that way." Would his own parents qualify? Was their sacrifice any less worthy of mention?

Hermione, on the pretext of sweeping her hair out of her eyes, brushed away a tear.

"Thanks, Neville. I'd like that." Forlorn, defeated, she surveyed the churchyard. "It's no good; he's gone. There's no coded message. He must have been too sick to know what he was saying. I'm just trying to create a mystery out of nothing. And I've got to come to terms with it."

Neville hid his relief. He'd been worried that Hermione would make herself ill fretting over her conspiracy theories, seeing codes and symbols and significance where none existed. It was time for her to move on, from denial to acceptance.

"I bet," he said, taking charge once again, "that you haven't had any lunch…"

**XXX**

Neville set the tankard onto the pub table and passed Hermione her orange juice.

"I gave the barman the blue money and he gave me this back," he said proudly, handing over the change. The novelty of Muggle shopping never failed to thrill. Hermione found it adorable. "That's twice in one day," he told her, taking off his hot duffle coat and dumping it on the chair next to him, on top of his parcel.

"Yes, what have you been buying – a shillelagh?" Hermione had noticed him carrying the package earlier in the churchyard, but had been too preoccupied to comment. It was long and knobbly, loosely wrapped in a few muddy sheets of the _Castleford and Pontefract Express_.

"Liquorice root." Neville grinned, thoughtfully licking the beer froth from his upper lip. _'Boddingtons' _was good, but not a patch on Butterbeer. "You can't come to Pontefract and not buy liquorice, can you?"

Hermione thought you probably could, quite easily.

"Yes, but most people buy the _sweets_, Neville, not dig up a bush." The small, flat, round liquorice sweets known as 'Pomfret' or 'Pomfrey' Cakes had been a speciality of the town since the 1700s.

"Can't beat a genuine English liquorice root," Neville enthused. "Not many places sell 'em any more. Monkhill's still grow a few – mainly for the tourists, like. This is the only place in the country where it flourishes – it's the soil, you know, light, loamy, well-drained…"

Hermione wished she hadn't asked. Once Neville got going on soil properties there was no stopping him. "It's a right pity," he continued happily, "most of the root stock's imported now – Turkish or Spanish – but it's nowhere near as good. Not as sweet. Do you realise, Hermione, liquorice is fifty times sweeter than sugar?" He took a long pull on his beer, smacking his lips this time, getting a taste for it. "It's the climate. The bushes don't flower so well in damp conditions. Flowering - it reduces the sweetness," he added, noting Hermione's bafflement. "It's a long do, though. In this country the roots can take up to four, maybe five years to mature – not what you'd call a quick crop. No surprise the local growers have gone belly up."(1)

"I know it's used as an ingredient in lots of potions." Hermione could remember the jars in Snape's store cupboard; liquorice in all its guises: freshly grated; dried and powdered; the dark, syrupy extract. In her mind's eye she watched him unscrewing a container of flaked bark, sensing the strength in his long fingers as he applied pressure to the resistant lid, the calculated precision as he extracted a pinch, the delicacy with which he sprinkled the pale flakes into the cauldron's rising steam…

"Madam – er, _Poppy_ – uses masses of it." After a year of working at Hogwarts, Neville had still not adjusted to first name familiarity with other members of staff.

"Her ancestors probably come from round here, with a name like Pomfrey," Hermione remarked. _**She'd**__ have no trouble tracking down her relations. Life could be so unfair. __**She**__ wouldn't have to spend hours poring over the dusty pages of the Register of Deaths, scouring the names for any reference to a long lost Snape or Prince._ Hermione and the registrar at Pontefract Town Hall were virtually on first name terms themselves by now.

Neville was still talking about liquorice.

"… as a sweetener, primarily, but it also acts as a blending and binding agent for other ingredients, and it's healing in its own right – for coughs and digestive, er, things…" He tailed into vagueness, hazy on the precise medical properties of the plants he grew or, in this case, procured. His attention was caught by something going on outside in the street. Hermione peered through the leaded panes but could see nothing unusual; the wide, pedestrianised Market Street was less busy than normal, but Thursday was half-day closing, so not all the shops were open; nothing strange about that.

"What am I missing?" She rose in her seat, craning to see.

"Eh? Oh, nowt. See that woman – just going in to _Kitsch & Tinkers_, look…"

Hermione was in time to spot a tall woman in a brown cord skirt and navy quilted gilet enter the hardware store.

"I saw her at Monkhill's this morning. I'm sure she's the same one. Struck me as odd, someone like that buying liquorice root."

"Why odd?"

Neville made a 'search me' face.

"I don't rightly know. She seemed so… ordinary."

"And only complete nutters buy liquorice. Hmm, you do have a point, Neville."

"There was something else too," he said, ignoring her. "She reminded me of somebody, but I can't for the life of me think who. No matter. How's the book coming on?"

"Getting there. Slowly."

For a while they discussed Hermione's work. Her contribution to the newly revised edition of _'Hogwarts: A History'_ had caused such a stir that she had been urged to expand it into a book in its own right. Her insightful historical analysis of the rise, reign and fall of Voldemort, _'The You-Know-Who Years', _was almost ready for publication.

"Bumped into Ron the other day." Neville forked the name into the conversation like muck onto an allotment. "Must have been… oh, a few weeks back. In Diagon Alley. You'll never guess who he was with."

"No. Who?" The odd rumour had reached Hermione, but lately their paths had not crossed. She hadn't seen Ron since Harry's funeral.

"Romilda Vane! They were getting her books for the new term. Seemed right _chummy_."

"If she can't have Harry, then Ron's the next best thing, is that it? What potion did she use this time?" It had been on the tip of her tongue to call Ron a cradle-snatcher, but, really, a couple of years were nothing, not compared to the twenty year age difference between herself and Sn-. She shook her head; comparisons were pointless, redundant, painful.

"Oh, she's a pleasant enough lass," said Neville, sounding older than his nineteen years. "Good luck to 'em."

Then their food arrived and Neville rapidly refocused his concentration onto a giant Yorkshire pudding the size of a castle, filled with mince and vegetables and surrounded by a moat of rich onion gravy, all thoughts of liquorice, the woman, Ron and Voldemort forgotten.

Hermione returned from the cloakroom to find Neville doodling a large lollipop on a paper napkin.

"Are they always that shape?" he asked. "War memorials?"

Hermione laughed. For an awful moment, she had thought he was preparing to give her an illustrated lecture on the life cycle of the liquorice plant – from pod to sprout to root to bush to tree. As she went on to describe the various stone crosses and obelisks she had encountered in her lifetime, Neville sketched them, adding a couple of his own design – a minimalist wand-shaped one and something that resembled either a witch's hat or an Erumpent tusk, depending on which way up you held the napkin.

"I'll run the idea past McGonagall and see what she says," he promised, reluctantly rising to leave. Ideally, he would not have Apparated so soon after such a big lunch. "Sorry to dash, but I'm supervising Detention at five. Creevey junior. Nice lad. I'm not too special at the whole discipline thing, though; 'appen we'll end up chatting about Quidditch."

But Hermione wasn't listening. She was staring at the napkin as though Neville had inadvertently jotted down the formula for the Elixir of Life.

"Thanks for everything," she murmured distractedly. "You've been great."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm fantastic. Never better!" Hermione declared. "Neville, you are a star!" Jumping up, she planted a kiss on his startled forehead. There was a manic gleam in her eye.

All Saints' Parish Church war memorial. A Celtic cross, a poppy, a lollypop… or a tree? Could it be? Was that stretching credibility too far? Yes, it was a ludicrous idea, about as far-fetched as an idea could possibly be, and yet… Hermione was humouring herself. It wouldn't hurt to double-check. She'd never forgive herself if she left this last stone – more of a pebble, really – unturned. Of course, she might still be 'Barking up the wrong tree'…

The October light was fading fast; in less than half an hour it would be dark. Already the back of the monument was in deep shadow. Stepping around the plinth, she gripped her wand tightly. If anybody asked, she'd say she'd lost an earring.

"_Lumos!_" she whispered, hardly daring to look at the engraved names. Maybe she had misheard Neville; maybe this sudden crazy conviction was too much of a lateral leap. But no – there was the list as he had recited it: Baker, Barkin, Birkby, Butterfield. Barkin! It had to be more than a coincidence, didn't it? Or was it all too tenuous? Was she clutching at straws, clinging to the last shred of hope that somewhere, buried in that final phrase, Snape's last living words, was a riddle intended for her and her alone? It had to be obscure, otherwise the Aurors would have solved it. Supposing, just supposing, that Snape had intentionally, subliminally, led her to the name Barkin…

Barkin! So what was the connection with Snape? According to the memorial, a Sgt. W.T. Barkin had died in 1943. Was he the link? A friend of Snape's father, perhaps? A relative by marriage? A Muggleborn who had known Snape at school – the parent of a Slytherin class-mate? She'd have to check the Hogwarts class lists.

No wonder all her investigations had stalled at dead ends – she'd been researching the wrong _family tree_. Intuition told her that at last she was heading in the right direction. She was sure of it. She hadn't felt so sure of anything for two years, since that moment in Snape's cell when he had held her – for all of a millisecond – in his arms.

On weekdays, Pontefract Town Hall Records' Office shuts at four thirty p.m. Throwing caution to the blustery winds, Hermione Apparated directly to the entrance lobby and scooted up the stairs. The clerk greeted her with a clock-watching negative, but Hermione's air of urgency, combined with her most winning smile, melted his objections.

" 'Deaths' again, Miss?" he asked with resignation.

"Not this time. I think I'll start with 'Marriages'," she told him. A dead Barkin was no good to her; she needed to trace a living one. "The past twenty-five years should be enough. I'll only be a few minutes. If you're busy, don't let me stop you."

In previous visits she had got the hang of the microfiche. The clerk, having logged her onto the system, no longer stood at her shoulder scrutinising her every click and scroll with protective disapproval, but left her to it while he went about his closing-up tasks, winding down the blinds, checking the windows, locking the filing cabinets, rinsing out the tea mugs.

It took her less than ten minutes. With the unerring instinct of an Emperor Penguin identifying its mate amongst the frozen, thronging thousands, Hermione singled out an entry: _Robert Walmsley Barkin, bachelor of the parish, factory foreman, son of Walter Thomas Barkin_… Her eyes devoured the page. _Occupation, residence, spouse…_ On the 13th May 1977 at All Saints' Church, he had married one Asperia Snape.

**XXX**

A bell on the door tinkled as Hermione entered the hardware shop. It was the kind of place that sold everything from tea strainers to torque wrenches.

"We're closed. We've totalled the tills," a granular voice called out.

"I'm sorry. I was wondering if… Do you think you could give me directions to Weaste Lane?" 27 Weaste Lane. That had been the address on Barkin's marriage certificate.

"Look like a policeman, do I?"

"No, but…"

"Ask no questions and you'll be told no lies." Behind the counter a sales assistant was flattening cardboard boxes. She straightened up as Hermione approached, dusting rough hands on her scarlet tabard apron. "Well? I haven't got all day. Some of us have homes to go to."

Hermione gulped. Under the apron, the assistant was wearing a brown cord skirt. It was the woman Neville had noticed earlier.

"Cat got your tongue? Or have I grown a second head? Last time I looked I only had the one," the assistant needled. "What can I do you for?"

Hermione stared. The woman was tall – about five foot eight – and muscular, with large, hard-working hands, the fingernails cut short and square. Her hair, shaped in a low-maintenance, nondescript bob, must have been dark once, but was now uniformly grey, making her appear older than her skin suggested; from appearances alone, Hermione would have estimated her age at anything between thirty-five and fifty. Neville was more observant than she had given him credit for. It was the nose that was the giveaway – a long, aquiline beak of a nose. Hermione already knew its contours by heart. She had no doubt that she was looking at Mrs Asperia Barkin, née Snape(2).

With that realisation came another: that she was not prepared for this confrontation. It was too soon, too sudden, too much of a shock. She needed to plan what to say. For all she knew, the woman might not even be aware that her brother – Hermione had made the assumption, based largely on age, that this person must be Snape's sister, or possibly a cousin – was dead. Maybe Snape's last words were, in effect, the instructions for her final errand – to track down his remaining relatives and give them the news.

"I'm s-sorry," she stuttered. "Do you, er, sell street maps of Pontefract?"

"Look like a bookshop, do we? You want Smiths, up the road, 'cept it's shut, like what we should be."

"I'm sorry to have troubled you," Hermione said again, retreating. As the shop door banged, the woman was already advancing, a bunch of keys in hand to lock up.

"Bleedin' tourists." Hermione heard her mutter.

**XXX**

Hermione guessed they must have walked over a mile. From the town centre they had crossed the busy dual carriageway, skirted the municipal rose garden and zigzagged through a mesh of backstreets. Gradually the residential zone petered out into countryside. Still Mrs Barkin kept walking, briskly and at a steady pace, looking neither right nor left nor behind. If she had, she might have seen Hermione tailing her at a safe distance.

As yet, Hermione had formulated no particular plan other than to follow, observe and possibly introduce herself. Away from the pressures of work, the woman might be more amenable. She might even be civil. Now they were on the very outskirts of the town; there were no street lamps here, and less traffic. Before leaving the shop, Mrs Barkin had exchanged the red apron for a camel coloured, calf-length jacket. As the occasional cars passed by, their beams picked out the solitary figure striding along the pavement, her jacket glowing pale gold in the headlights. Hermione stayed well back, keeping her in view. Another half mile and they branched off the road and onto a single-file lane bordered by fields and farmland. A buckled and mud-spattered sign, long since crushed into the hedgerow by some careless driver cornering too fast, labelled it Weaste Lane. Two grey donkeys surveyed each of them critically as they passed. Behind them, the ambient light of the town diluted the darkness; up ahead all was pitch black.

Without warning, the woman turned sharply left and disappeared. Hermione heard the clunk of a latch and hinges creaking. Cautiously, she caught up. The gate opened onto a narrow cobbled pathway leading to a cottage. No light shone from any of the windows. Hermione felt an irrational stab of disappointment. What had she been hoping? To meet the mysterious Barkin? To find a cosy family of Snape's nephews and nieces eagerly awaiting their mother's return?

Suddenly the downstairs lights blazed. Like a Peeping Tom, Hermione watched from the total blackout of the garden. _Should she knock and say hello? Should she come back tomorrow in daylight? 'Get your facts straight', Snape would have said; 'Know your enemy'. _So she watched. In the tiny kitchen, Mrs Barkin dumped her heavy carrier bag onto the table and took off her camel jacket, hanging it on a hook on the back of the door. She filled the kettle and set it to boil, riddled the grate and added fresh coals to the embers. A tabby cat detached itself from the fireside and wove anxious, demanding circles around her feet until she spooned something out of an open tin, smacking the saucer down onto the floor in what looked like exasperation.

Hermione was plucking up courage to approach – with each passing moment it seemed a worse and worse idea – when the woman snatched up the carrier bag again and marched outside. Another, narrower, gravel path led the length of the garden towards a dilapidated outhouse. From the combative set of her shoulders, her grim expression and aggressive gait, Hermione deduced that Mrs Asperia Barkin was not at all pleased.

"You've let the fire go out." The woman addressed somebody inside the shed, barely across the threshold before launching into her complaints. "And Tiffin was ravenous."

Hermione edged closer to hear; she wished she could get a look at the unfortunate, inefficient Mr Barkin.

"Here am I, working all the hours God sends, and what are you doing? Holed up in this shed of yours, poncing about with mixtures. Is it too much to ask – two simple jobs? Wouldn't kill you, would it?"

The reply was little more than a mutter. It was a man's voice though.

"You've not even lit the stove – it's like an icebox in here. … The smell? Nothing wrong with the smell of honest to goodness paraffin. …Well, even if it does give you a headache… No skin off my nose if you catch your death, but I've enough on my plate. Can do without having you laid up again for weeks on end, coughing your guts out. Think I haven't got better things to do than wait on you hand and foot?"

"… …" (Inaudible.)

"Didn't get much choice, did I?"

Hermione crept to the door, which had swung back a few inches on its rusty hinges, and peeped inside. Her view was largely obstructed by the solid person of Mrs Barkin, but she could hear better.

"Here's your log." The woman dumped the carrier bag onto a wooden workbench, tipping out the contents. Newspaper wrappings sprang open and a length of liquorice root fell onto the bench, scattering the surface with sandy loam. "You'd better knock out a batch of that concoction of yours smartish, that's all I can say – you've been like a crocodile with toothache these last few days. See if it'll sweeten your temper. Oh, what's the point? Blood from a stone! Or is that something you lot do too? Well?"

"Well _what_?"

"A word of thanks wouldn't go amiss. Spent my tea-break traipsin' to _Monks'_ for that blessed stick. If that's what passes for manners at that fancy school of yours, I was well out of it, that's all I can say."

"I wish it were."

The querulous flow shrivelled to a disdainful 'Hmph!' but it was obvious that there was a great deal more Mrs Barkin could and would liked to have said on the matter. Regardless of the man's wishes, she struck a match and lit the paraffin heater. Smoky blue warmth oiled the air.

"I'd best be making a start on tea, then," she declared in a martyred tone.

Hermione ducked out of sight as the woman picked her way back to the cottage. Her heart racing, she leaned against the wall of the shed, faint and trembling. The man had spoken a mere half dozen words, but the sound of his voice left her sick with disbelief – and wild, insane, life-sustaining hope. It couldn't be _him_, could it?

The shed door was flung open. Snape had extinguished the paraffin stove and was wafting out the offending fumes. He coughed, took a couple of breaths of fresh night air and retreated inside, leaving the door ajar.

Hermione slumped further down the wall, the turmoil in her mind leaving no room for niceties such as balance. Alive? He was _alive_? And living here with that miserable cow? He'd chosen to live with his nagging harridan of a sister rather than come to her? Why? _Why?_ He'd survived, escaped, and for _two years_ – two years! – he had let her go on thinking he was dead? That was cruel. It was beyond cruel. If he had been injured, incapacitated in some way, she might have forgiven him, but he looked fit enough. Fit enough to be brewing potions. Had he cut his losses, turned his back on his old existence and started a new life here? While she had wasted two years of her life eaten up with grief and regret, mourning a fantasy, cherishing the memory of… of what? Of a love that had never existed. Of something false and shallow. Of a figment.

With leaden limbs Hermione pushed herself to her feet. In three Ds she could be home. She would have to revise her chapter on _'Snape, the Unsung Hero'_. There was nothing left for her here.

But she couldn't bring herself to leave. Minutes later, it was another Hermione - a Hermione in whom indignation and wounded pride had ousted rejection and disappointment – who stole to the open door to confront Snape, to have it out with the man she had so ludicrously loved and lost.

Fastidious as ever, he was dusting the spilled sand off the bench. The shed was demarcated into two distinct territories. On the right hand side, traditional, muddy, garden shed clutter was stacked high. In sharp contrast, the space on the left had been cleaned, emptied, organised, restocked. Transfixed, Hermione scarcely registered the array of pots, jars and containers that filled the planking shelves. She had eyes only for Snape. From the equipment laid out on the table, it was evident that he had established a rudimentary but functional potions lab. Phials and bottles glittered, polishing the mean light into sharp sparkles. A single Davey lamp cast sickly shadows, darkening his eye sockets, hollowing his cheeks. A glass flask on the bench contained a greyish substance Hermione didn't recognise.

She spied on Snape as he turned his attention to the liquorice, wiping it carefully and cutting off a sizeable chunk from one end. The long, capable fingers, which had so often caressed her dreams, began to peel away the skin of the root.

Hermione jumped as a silver-grey tabby – the sadly neglected Tiffin - brushed past her legs. It slunk into the shed and in a single, fluid bound leaped up onto the workbench. The thought flitted through Hermione's mind that it might be McGonagall's animagus, that there was some massive conspiracy going on to which she was not privy, but the cat took up a position at the far end of bench and squatted demurely, its ringed tail curling around its bunched body like a black and grey striped scarf. Snape looked at it and scowled. Hermione waited for him to swat the animal out of the way, but he merely raised an admonitory finger, warning it not to come any closer. The cat blinked.

Working methodically, Snape selected a bottle, poured several inches of colourless liquid over the section of root and set it aside to steep. He stoppered the bottle and replaced it on the shelf, twisting it so that the label lined up neatly with those of its glinting neighbours. From a covered dish he took three delicate teal blue eggs. One by one he held them up to the light, shook them, weighed them in his cupped palm. Lighting a candle, he heated a needle in the flame until Hermione could see the tip glow red. Then he pierced the largest of the blue eggs, first the more rounded end and then the other. Lifting the egg very carefully to his lips, he began to blow…

A gust of wind caught at Hermione's hair, dragging it across her eyes. Impatiently she pushed it out of her face.

"Who's there? Asp? I told you, I'll be down shortly," Snape barked, without looking round.

"Asperia's gone," said Hermione, stepping forward into the light. Snape froze. His back was to the door; Hermione couldn't see his expression. The blue egg slipped from his fingers and smashed on the bench top.

"Hello, Sir." She'd intended to stride in demanding an explanation, but now that the moment had come, her self-assertion had deserted her. She wished he would speak. _Why didn't he say anything?_ _A rapturous welcome was too much to hope for, but he might at least acknowledge her presence._ There was something scary about this shocked immobility.

"Snape? It's me. It's Hermione."

Slowly he turned; first his head and then his body swivelled towards her. Still he said nothing. The dark eyes were wide with alarm; his face was white.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she said, "but **I'm** the one talking to a 'corpse'." A note of accusation had crept into her voice. She took another step.

"Don't…! …no nearer!" He gasped a warning. His right hand groped behind him, feeling for the bench to steady himself.

"Severus – you're shaking! Here, look, you'd better sit down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

Automatically, naturally, her arm went round his shoulders, but at her touch a violent shudder ripped through Snape's body. Stung, Hermione pulled away. She saw he was working for breath, a faint clogged-filter wheeze deep in his chest.

"Pass me… that…flask… would you?"

The tabby cat, furtively licking up the spilt egg, shied away as Hermione reached across the table. Snape took a gulp of the thick, grey mixture, his face contorting in disgust.

"Ugh. Oh… ugh." The unsweetened, bitter potion made his eyes water. Gradually his breathing eased. "Chest gets tight," he muttered. "Ever since that damn Dessicorpus."

Against her instincts, Hermione kept her distance. Two years of deceit rose between them, an intangible force, pushing them apart. That shudder had lefty her confused, uncertain. She tried to keep the pain out of her voice, as if coming upon a dead man calmly working in his shed was an everyday occurrence.

"So this is where you've been hiding?"

"On and off." He eyed her. "Quite the little detective, aren't you, though hardly up to your usual standard." The remark was loaded with a reproach Hermione did not understand. It seemed to be directed at herself, yet _she_ was the one who had been cheated.

"My usual - ?"

"Out of sight, out of mind?" There was no sarcasm or irony there; he was genuinely wounded.

"_What?_"

"I didn't anticipate miracles, not even from the incomparable Miss Granger, but I'll admit, after the demise of the Dark Lord, I dared to hope… Was it Scrimgeour? Was he intractable?"

"Scrimgeour was OK. No worse than normal. Why?" Hermione felt she was being expected to create a potion when she had only half the required ingredients. Something was definitely missing.

"I see. So why now? What made you change your mind?"

"Change my - ?" In a sickening strobe of insight the truth danced before her eyes: Snape had been _waiting_ for her to find him. And he'd concluded – after how many lonely months? - that she had given up on him; she'd called off the search.

"Sir, listen, I don't think you realise -" she began, but he cut her off.

"Tired of playing at prison visitor?" _Did he think that her clandestine infiltration of the ministry had been some kind of a joke?_

"Please, Sir, we all thought -"

"Lady Bountiful act lost its novelty?" _…that she had regarded him as nothing more than a charitable cause?_

"Stop it, Severus! **We thought you were dead! **The Ministry issued a statement saying that you'd died. From the after effects of the Dessicorpus."

"So I heard." Dry; sardonic. "And you _believed_ them?"

"Yes. Yes, I did." Now she was ashamed to admit it. "I did think it was very sudden. I was suspicious, but, yes, I believed them. Why shouldn't I? How was I to know…?"

"It did not occur to you to demand proof?"

"Proof?"

"A body."

Stricken with retrospective guilt, Hermione moistened her lips and gulped.

"Yes, but… But they said… They said you'd had a relapse, that the spell had come back and that… They said your body was… I'm sorry." Seeing him like that once had been more than enough.

"I see."

Again Hermione detected a note of reproach, of disappointment. _How had she failed him this time? What else could she have done?_

"You try getting a straight answer out of the Ministry," she declared in self-defence. "What was I supposed to do?"

"I thought you might have -" he began, but broke off, silencing himself with clamped lips and a shake of the head, pulling back from the verge of indiscretion.

"What? Might have what?"

"_Nothing_. **I don't know**." Whatever he had expected from her, he wasn't going to say. He was angry with himself now.

"I'm not psychic!" Hermione snapped back. _Or was that what he had expected? That some sixth sense would have told her he was still alive? Is that what had kept her coming back to Pontefract, never quite reconciled to his death, not yet ready to abandon hope?_

"I'm sorry," she said again. "But that's why I didn't come to look for you. Do you imagine that if I'd known you were alive, somewhere, I wouldn't have spent _every waking minute_ trying to find you?"

Snape didn't need Legilimens to know she wasn't lying. But his eyes sought Hermione's anyway; a tentative arc of understanding flickered between them.

"But **you** knew where to find **me**." Hermione wasn't ready to let two years of misery go unchallenged. "All last year I was at Hogwarts… And now that I've left you could have asked my parents or the Weasleys… But, no, you chose to hole yourself up here. Is it any wonder we believed what Scrimgeour told us? How were we to know it was all some Ministry cover-up? So you escaped? How embarrassing! I'm not surprised they wanted to gloss over it. You knew – you must have known – that you could come to me; that I'd hide you even if you were on the run. But you came _here_, to that woman. To your… sister?"

Snape nodded.

"I didn't even know you had a sister. Nobody did. You kept that quiet. And then what? Nothing! Not an owl, not a note to say that you were all right. Nothing! How do you suppose that makes me feel?" A dry sob choked her. She hadn't intended to sound so needy; what was meant as self-righteous anger had come out as helplessness and hurt.

Snape stood up. Hermione recognised the tactic: self-justification – lies, excuses, whatever – would sound more authoritative when he was vertical, and dominant.

"I had my reasons," he said gruffly.

"Then **tell** me!" Hermione implored. "Look, I've pretty much laid myself on the line here. The least you can do is give me some sort of an explanation. You owe me that much. Then I'll go. I won't hang around to be a nuisance." _Not if you don't want me._

She saw him glance at the door. Was he afraid or hoping that Asperia would return and find them? Or was he ready to make a run for it? He would do almost anything to escape being put on the spot and having to spell out his emotions.

"Perhaps I wished to avoid completing the hat-trick," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" Hermione was confused enough without another riddle to complicate the mystery.

"The hat-trick! You saw me die once under Potter's spell; Scrimgeour appears to have sold you on the notion of my second death. I couldn't… Hermione, I couldn't put you through that again. However much I wanted to see you." The last sentence was swallowed into an aside. Hermione only just caught it.

"But, you didn't have to die. I wouldn't have handed you over to -"

"The Vow, girl! The Vow."

"The Vow's invalid!" she exclaimed. Snape visibly relaxed. "How could the Vow still be operative – Dumbledore's dead, Malfoy's dead, Voldemort's dead. There's no one left. And why should it matter now anyhow?"

"No," Snape contradicted her bleakly. "The other Vow."

**XXX**

_Two years earlier…_

…"On your knees, Death Eater!" Savage's wand jabbed into Snape's throat as a simultaneous '_Jellylegs!' _from Willets felled him at a stroke. Still dazed from the brutal awakening – dragged bodily from his cell in the middle of the night – and weakened by weeks of captivity, it had not needed a hex to bring him down.

"What's going on?" Snape gasped. His spell-damaged lungs were fighting for oxygen; he felt light-headed, his muscles strangely unresponsive.

"That rather depends on you, _Mister_ Snape."

Rufus Scrimgeour limped into Snape's field of vision.

"Working late?" Snape flung out a barb. "I thought you Ministry types knocked off at tea-time." He didn't know if he'd live to get another chance to insult the Minister of Magic.

With the butt end of his walking stick, Scrimgeour lifted Snape's chin. The yellow eyes blazed with hostility.

"I'm not here to exchange banter with you, Snape. To barter, maybe, but we'll get to that in a minute." He leaned against the edge of the desk, looking down at Snape with studied contempt. One hand rested on his knee, the thumb massaging the aching joint with small, repetitive circles. "You, Snape – and I'm speaking candidly here – are a thorn in the Ministry's side. Thanks to that loud-mouthed, interfering, crusading, busy-bodying _gnat_ of a girlfriend of yours, you are famous. Infamous. My office is knee deep in petitions campaigning for your release. The Department has been inundated with demands for a judicial review." He tapped a sheaf of papers on the desk. "There are proposals here from well-meant but clearly deranged individuals regarding your rehabilitation. Equally vociferous are the factions who would prefer to see you variously hung, drawn and quartered, despatched to Azkaban or abandoned to the tender attentions of the Dementors. We can't get into the Ministry without having to fight our way through placard-wielding pickets on the pavement. Next thing we know, the Muggles will be getting wind of it. And then where would we be?"

He raked a hand through his mane.

"So, Snape, what am I to do with you? It may please you to know that our forces are stretched to their limit in the hunt for your erstwhile ally – He Who Must Not Be Named. I really have neither the capacity nor the inclination to waste my resources on your security any longer."

_So this is where it ends._

"It's your decision, Snape. What's it to be – Azkaban? Death? My vote's on Azkaban, or it would be, if it weren't for your damned _fan-club_. Or might we come to some _arrangement_? You see, Snape, frankly, I need to get shot of you – you're small fry; there are other bigger fish in this ocean."

"You want me to escape? And be conveniently cursed in the attempt, I presume?" said Snape.

A perfunctory smile cracked the Minister's bedrock features.

"Oh, come, Snape. Never let it be said that Rufus Scrimgeour is not a merciful man. It's simply a matter of your swearing to stay out of harm's way." Scrimgeour leant forward exuding sincerity.

_Nothing is that simple._

"Banishment?" Snape knew he should be searching for loopholes, but tonight he was too battered, too ill, too exhausted to start analysing ramifications. The way he felt now, a speedy death was the most attractive option.

"I'm not here to quibble over terminology, Snape. I prefer to use the word 'freedom'. Freedom or death? Is that so difficult?"

"I'd hate to be a stain on your pristine conscience." There was no choice. Shakily Snape raised his right hand.

"Knew you'd see sense. You Slytherins are all the same." Scrimgeour lowered himself into a kneeling position in front of Snape and grabbed his hand.

"Let's get this charade over with. Savage, you're the Bonder, hurry up with that wand. Ready? Will you, Severus Snape, leave this place, never to return?"

"I will," said Snape. _With pleasure. But it can't be that straightforward._

As the first strand of flame entwined their wrists, Scrimgeour's grip tightened until his powerful paw was crushing Snape's fingers.

"Will you undertake not to approach, either directly in person or through the intermediary of a third party, any of your former colleagues, students, friends, associates or acquaintances, magical or Muggle?"

Snape hesitated for so long that Scrimgeour's raised arm began to quiver.

"Get on with it, man! Will you or won't you?"

"I will," Snape sighed. _I'll never see her again._

The second flame emerged in fragmented wisps, which played teasingly up and down Snape's sleeve before linking with the first.

"Will you swear not to initiate contact with any of the aforementioned, by any means, verbal, written, Muggle or magical – and that includes owls, Floos, Patronuses, magical mirrors and any of your devious Dark devices?"

"I will," said Snape. _How will I let her know?_

The third tongue of flame lit up two faces: one self-satisfied and smug, the other wreathed in despair. The fiery knot bound their clasped hands in an Unbreakable pledge. It might as well have been a noose around Snape's neck.

Scrimgeour levered himself to his feet, shaking out his right hand as if he had been touching a tarantula.

"One last thing, Snape. I think this belongs to you."

He produced Snape's wand, impounded by Tonks on the night of his arrest. Snape refused to be tricked into showing interest. His expression remained impassive as the Minister snapped the wand in two.

**xxx**

"Get up, scum." A mild Crucio hit him in the kidneys and Snape jerked back to consciousness. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Ah, now he remembered: collapsed on the floor in Scrimgeour's office. And his life – as he knew it – was over.

"I give him a month," Willets chuckled to Savage. "No wizard could keep to a vow like that. He'll go off his rocker. A month before he's back here – in a box!"

"I get a State funeral too? Too kind," Snape croaked. There was bile rising in his throat; he felt he might be sick.

"Oh sure, and where would Your Darkness care to be buried?" jeered Willets, yanking the prisoner up, nearly dislocating Snape's shoulder in the process.

"Pontefract. All Saints." The name stumbled out of Snape's subconscious. He barely knew what he was saying. He had no real plan, no strategy. Just a link to the past. There'd been no time to think. But the fraction of his brain capable of coherent thought knew that his final words had to be controversial. There was the remotest chance that someone – that _she_ - might get to hear of them and begin to ask questions…

Willets gave an incredulous guffaw.

"Got a right one 'ere."

"Better tell the gov'nor though. Could be important – one of them Death Eater meeting places or something," said Savage.

"Nah. He's takin' the piss. Mad as a hatter." Willets wrenched Snape's arms behind his back and bound them securely as a precaution before Side-Along.

"Barking mad," Savage agreed.

In the pain-addled depths of Snape's mind another memory stirred.

"You're Barkin' up the wrong tree!" he shouted.

**XXX**

_(present time)_

"So they Apparated you into the middle of nowhere?" Hermione probed. As Snape's story unfolded – hesitantly and with much glossing over unpleasant detail – she had shifted her chair next to his and, later, gently taken his cold hand into her own. Snape raised no objection, but gave no encouragement. His troubled gaze dropped to their joined hands as though they were a dubious gift he no longer had the willpower to refuse. Hermione might have deposited a Phoenix egg in his lap – something rare and infinitely precious, but which might crack into flames at any minute and scar him for life.

"You could say that. Watford. And then I made my way north." He made it sound easy.

"Without magic?" Hermione knew how daunting non-magical travel could be to a wizard born to broomsticks and Floos and Apparition. Living in a Muggle world would be fraught with stresses.

"I returned here to claim my…" Snape paused, then plunged on with his explanation. "…my mother's wand. I could have stolen one, but… I might have been recognised. I had no way of knowing how _sensitive_ the Vow might be." A rueful snort hinted at months of frustration. The effectiveness of the Vow was hardly something he could have put to the test. "The price one pays for celebrity! It almost makes me sympathise with the late, lamented Potter."

_Almost_. Even Harry's noble self-sacrifice and his defeat of Voldemort could not compensate for the hardships his thoughtlessness had caused Snape, directly or indirectly.

"You heard about Harry?" Hermione didn't know if _The Daily Prophet _was available in Muggle Pontefract.

"If Scrimgeour thinks that banishment and a broken wand is enough to make me sever all links with the magical world…" Snape flared. "Of course I followed Potter's progress – when I could - and … and yours. Your N.E.W.T.s results were no less than I expected. And now you're a writer. You've made quite a name for yourself."

Hermione glowed.

"It's just a book," she said. "Anyone could have written it."

Then, lest there should be any misunderstanding about her motives – Snape was only too capable of interpreting her visit as a piece of scholarly research – she addressed him, shyly.

"What I said to you that day at the Ministry… do you remember?"

_How could he forget?_

"Well, I…" she faltered. Without the Molly disguise it was much harder to tell him to his face, to say that she loved him. He must know it already; she'd as good as said so. Her very presence shouted it out loud. But sometimes people need to hear the actual words. "What I'm trying to say is… I mean… Nothing's _changed_…" Oh, he'd know what she was talking about. "Has it?"

For several aeons, she thought he wasn't going to answer.

"No," he murmured at last, meeting her halfway. "Some things don't change."

Then he retreated, breaking the spell, clearing his throat. "So, after my parents' death, Asperia dealt with their effects. I was counting on the fact that she would still be in possession of the wand. She has scant respect for the wizard world – as you may have noticed – but even she would never throw away a wand."

"She's not magical herself then?" Smiling, Hermione indulged him in his tactical withdrawal. He'd said as much as he could. She pictured Asperia. Anyone less magical would be hard to imagine. Wearily Snape shook his head.

"Took after my father. And not just in the nose."

"That's how I recognised her – by her nose," Hermione murmured. An impulse to reach and touch Snape's own nose propelled her hand upwards, but she controlled herself and let it drop to rest lightly on his thigh. "But I thought your family came from further west?"

"She moved here with Barkin. When I was still at school. It was no skin off my nose -" he echoed his sister's phrase, dissociating himself from the pun with a low snort. "We were never what you might call _close_. Ran away with him and got married at that Muggle church in the town. A man twice her age. He died a few years ago." Snape's answers had become less guarded and more honest. The details dripped out, one by one, as the rush of warm feeling condensed on the exterior chill of his reserve. The vacuum-sealed vault of personal information, which had contained his secrets for so long, had finally sprung a leak.

"And your parents?" Hermione asked.

"Killed in the first war," he replied bluntly. "At the time it was not, ah, _politic_, for me to associate myself with their deaths. They are still unrecorded. By then Asperia had already eloped. The Dark Lord was unaware of her existence."

"How awful for you." Hermione squeezed his hand. A thought occurred to her. "Did Dumbledore know?"

"About my family? It wasn't a secret, if that's what you mean."

_No, and nor was the fact that you were the half-blood son of Eileen Prince. But no one seemed to know about that either._

Hermione considered. Easing herself over, she leaned until her head was resting on Snape's shoulder.

"It's strange to hear you talk about your family," she said softly. "I think that…"

"…that what?"

"…that Professor Dumbledore had more than one reason for trusting you."

For a few moments, they sat in silence, side by side, absorbing the miracle of each other's presence. Hermione didn't want to rush him and, in the relief of finally talking, Snape was sinking into a trance-like state of nervous exhaustion.

"It was you, wasn't it, who helped Harry?" Hermione spoke at last, voicing the suspicion that had been lurking in her mind. "He suddenly had this extraordinary run of good luck, finding the Horcruxes. None of us could figure out how he was doing it. Professor Dumbledore had been looking for years, and yet in six months, Harry had the lot. How did he… how did _you_ do it?"

"Let's just say I eliminated certain obstacles. Never underestimate the usefulness of Invisibility Charms and Polyjuice – and intelligence." Snape wouldn't elaborate. "It was Potter who delivered the final _coup de grace_."

Coming from Snape, that last comment was generous. Hermione found herself looking up at him with unconcealed admiration.

"I knew you couldn't mean it," she said. "When you stormed out and said that from now on Harry was 'on his own'."

"I meant it. That night I meant it." Snape's voice was subdued. His fingers curled round Hermione's, locking them into a grip that could have been alarming. He was a strong man. Hermione used her free thumb to smooth the back of his hand, repetitively stroking from wrist to knuckle. The skin was unblemished, the werewolf scars long since healed.

"That was the most appalling clue, by the way." Trying to shift the conversation away from Harry, Hermione chose a subject hardly less painful. " 'Barking up the wrong tree'! How was I supposed to make any sense of that? It's a pure fluke I ended up here, you know. If it hadn't been for Neville and his silly liquorice…"

"Not my finest hour," Snape admitted, rousing himself. "I'm afraid I wasn't feeling up to any cunning conundrums." He had tensed again at the very mention of that night.

"Shh. Don't think about it. You're better now – aren't you?"

"I'll live," he said wryly. "No thanks to Potter, or Scrimgeour."

It had been several weeks before he was well enough to venture back into the wizard world. Even after his health had recovered, his life still teetered precariously on the threshold of imminent death. Any chance encounter with an acquaintance in the street might have triggered the Vow. Only an oversight – the omission of the word 'family' from the threefold pledge – had allowed Snape this refuge with Asperia. It was far from ideal, but it was the one place where he could be himself.

Indignation got the better of Hermione.

"I'm going to have this out with Scrimgeour," she seethed. "There must be something we can do about having the Vow revoked or repealed, or whatever it is they do. You can't go on like this. I'm going to get you to a proper Healer, and… Oh!" She sat bolt upright, gazing at him aghast. "That's what you meant before, isn't it, when you asked me about Scrimgeour? You thought I'd already got him to cancel the Vow."

"I had hoped so," he said, evasive again.

"God, I'm going to nail that man! With what I've got on him now he'll be lucky if he's still the Minister of Magic by Christmas. But -" Snape's renewed reticence alerted her. "Oh, Severus, when I bowled up here tonight, you didn't know, did you? Whether or not the Vow was still in force? That's why you were so shocked. You thought… Oh no, you expected to…"

"…drop dead at your feet? The thought did cross my mind." He tried to make light of it, and failed. Hermione read the anguish in his eyes.

"Severus, come here." Sliding her arms around his waist, she gathered him towards her into a hug that channelled two unbearable years of loss and longing. Pulling him closer still, she buried her face in his neck, stroking her hands up his back, needing to know every inch of him, never wanting to let him go. Beneath her fingers she felt his muscles, tense and defensive, his body rigid. Then, with a plosive sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for those two long years and only now had finally allowed himself to exhale, he wrapped his arms about her shoulders, crushing her against him, holding her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

"I wanted to come to you," he whispered hoarsely.

"I know. I know…"

"I waited…"

"I'm here now. We'll get through this."

At last, as the trembling stilled, Hermione felt Snape's desperate grip on her relax.

"Severus, when I arrived and you wouldn't speak to me or anything – that was because you were afraid to 'initiate contact'?" she asked, still exploring the contours of his back, almost drunk with the freedom of being able to touch him.

"It posed a risk." He didn't want to talk about it.

"But we're in contact now…" Hermione persisted, teasing.

Snape manfully ignored the _double entendre_.

"The wording of the Vow was specific. It was Scrimgeour who was sloppy. I hoped that if **you** made all the advances, the Vow might not be activated. I would not have taken the chance, but in the circumstances, what else could I do?"

"So, does that mean it'll always be up to me to 'take the initiative' from now on?"

Tenderly cupping his face in her hands, Hermione pulled him down towards her own upturned lips.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" _As if he didn't know!_

"You'd better get used to it. I'm taking the initiative…"

**THE END**

**That really is the end this time. I know that, as Epilogues go, this was rather long, but it would have been pretentious of me to post it in separate chapters. Thank you to all my readers, to my wonderful betas Duj and Cecelle, and to everyone who has reviewed or emailed me. Bfn…**

1. In its heyday Pontefract boasted 10 liquorice factories, exporting their produce all round the world. Today only two remain: Haribo (a German company) and Monkhill.

2 . Asperia Barkin, nee Snape. OK, so there is no canon evidence that Snape had siblings, cousins or any other relatives apart from Eileen and Tobias. Personally, I see him as an only child, but for the purposes of this fic I have interpreted the 'laughing girl' who watched 'the scrawny boy' (presumably Snape) on the broomstick, as being a relative rather than a fellow student.


End file.
